Finding You
by NightmarePrince
Summary: He is a prince, born and raised into nobility. She is a peasant, an apprentice herbalist and healer for the people of her village. They have but one thing is common and that is the magic that flows through their veins. Drawn together by circumstance and chance, will they find a love that society has no choice but to condemn?
1. Chapter 1

**Finding You**

**Chapter One**

The hooves of his steed set a frantic rhythm as he navigated the tangled forest, his platinum hair streaming behind him. He rode at a gallop though Shadowsong was weary and flagging. Nevertheless they ride on, the desire to return to the royal hunting party greater than their own sense of self-preservation.

He was young and foolish, more boy than man and naive to the dangers of the woods, secure in the knowledge that he was armed with his sword and his bow and that no harm could befall him whilst he had them. More so was his wand, hidden within the sleeve of his tunic where it could be reached at a moment's notice.

Blood dotted Shadowsong's flanks and the boy felt guilt for riding so recklessly. But he needed to get back to his father and brothers, all of whom would not be impressed that he had bungled his first hunting trip. Cursing himself for having such an inquisitive nature, he tried to discern any recognisable landmarks. It was his fault after all; he just had to have gone looking for wolves that morning and just had to go investigate that ruined windmill. And of course, he just needed to have investigated the rumours that there really were unicorns in Whisperwind Grove.

Naturally, he had ended up hopelessly lost.

"OI!" he yelled in alarm when he felt his steed buckle beneath him, sending the pair crashing to the ground in a tumble of flailing limbs and whinnied shrieks of fear.

Groaning, he struggled to his feet, a dull ache filling his right wrist and he cursed as he realised what had happened: Shadowsong had tripped upon a root and went down. Tenderly, he reached out to inspect the damage and a pang tore through his heart as the horse let loose a bloodcurdling scream when he touched the injured leg.

Broken. Obviously broken.

"C'mon, boy," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, stroking his hand through the silky mane in an attempt to calm Shadow. He had learned to ride upon Shadow, and had raised him since he was a foal. In a life of royal eccentricities and political intrigues, his horse was in a way his only real friend. Biting his lip and knowing what he had to do, he drew his wand from his sleeve and pointed it at the wounded leg with trembling hands. He knew this wasn't what his father would do in his place but he couldn't contemplate the alternative.

"This may sting a little, Shadow," murmured the boy as he rested one hand on the horse's velvety nose and began concentrating on the magical energy that filled his blood. A steady stream of pale blue energy began to flow from the tip of his wand and Shadowsong let out a mournful neigh of pain which tore at the prince's heart.

"Almost there," he said through gritted teeth as he saw bones begin to slide back into place beneath the bruised skin under his healing spark. The effort was draining him more than he anticipated but he would be damned if he let his horse down, not now after he had ridden him into the ground. With a loud groan from him and a sharp click from the now healed hind-leg, his magic fizzled and died.

Black spots filled his vision and he stumbled as he got to his feet, a wry grin on his face as he leaned on his standing horse.

"Told you it would sting," he said as the horse surveyed him with a thankful look in his wide brown eyes.

All seemed well as he mounted up and took off at a more leisurely pace, slacking slightly in the saddle from exhaustion and knowing now not to rush forward in such frenzy. Another fall like that would be catastrophic and beyond his energy to heal, already he had taxed himself to the point where he was barely able to stand on his own.

"Find home, Shadow," he whispered as he slumped in the saddle, his aristocratic features nestled in the silky mane of ebony.

(*)(*)(*)

She sighed as she made her way home from a long day of gathering rare ingredients for her mother's potions and poultices, her bones aching despite her youth. She ignored her complaining arms, knowing that she only had to make this trip once every fortnight, a thought that made the weighty baskets bearable. Caked dirt clung to her brown curls and she grimly noted that she would once again have to carry buckets of water from the well so as to wash her hair. It was not the task that annoyed her; it was more that whenever she washed her hair it would quickly turn into a bushy mane.

Life wasn't always easy in her village; they were far from the capital and the realms principal harbour, their only trade item were the naturally occurring crystals mined in the nearby mountains. The flickering firelight of a dozen torches burned along the path. They had been created before she was born by a wandering sorcerer who wished to thank them for their hospitality.

They were a poor folk but they made do, not needing the lavishness of the fabled royal court. Of course they all dreamt of it from time to time, imagining a life in which they no longer needed to work the fields or live in their roughly timbered hovels, picturing halls of solid gold and plates of nacre and platinum. The girl, an apprentice herbalist, often frowned at their outrageous descriptions of the cities and towns. She was a practical person and doubted very much that their streets sported fountains of honeyed wine or that their chamber-pots where carved from solid silver.

They may be royalty and nobility present in the big cities of their realm but she found it highly unlikely that they thought their shit was worth such an expensive lavatory.

A trio of little children came running up the street, cheery grins etched upon their skinny faces as they chanted, "Sparkles! Sparkles! Sparkles!" Grubby faced and standing no higher than her knee, they circled her with dirty toes sinking into the damp ground.

She frowned as she contemplated their request. On one hand, indulging them would tire her exponentially. On the other, so few children remained in the village after the plague that had wracked their lands the previous year that she knew it was worth it to entertain them and give them a little joy. Her decision made, she set down her laden baskets and slipped her hand into her pocket to caress the carved garnet she kept within. It was a family heirloom, a rare bit of wealth that she knew to keep hidden lest it be stolen by the people around her.

Yes, the villagers were warm and friendly as they relied on each other but they were also not above stealing in an attempt to elevate their status.

Instantly, the gentle buzz of her energy began spreading out from her core and with a flick of her free wrist a shower of twirling emerald sparks filled the air around her. She winced at the formidable drain on her reserves, the empty feeling only made bearable by the delighted laughter of the children who danced beneath her swirling spellwork.

She assumed that magic would come easier to her if she owned a wand but the magical instruments were costly things. Her entire village could sell all they owned and they still would never be able to afford such extravagance. It was folly to even wish for one, they were the symbol of the highborn and her birth and rank was lower than the mud upon which she trod.

A loud neigh caught her attention and she turned swiftly, vision clearing in the cool twilight air as a sable horse burst from the outskirts of the forest. A lithe boy lay slumped in the saddle, a slender circlet of white gold nestled in sleek waves of platinum. Her eyes widened at the sight of the steed, he was obviously of a much purer breed than the two sturdy carthorses that pulled their ploughs

The horse seemed to gravitate towards her, slowing to a rough trot and panting as it nudged her head with its muzzle, seemingly drawn by the emerald sparks that lit her. The children had long since taken flight, half in fear and half in desperate need to inform their peers of what they had just seen.

The boy stirred, looking up at her through bleary eyes and smiling a wan smile as he tottered back and forth and she could not help but feel envy at the fine leather of his ensemble, which was in stark contrast to the plain cotton of her own dress.

"Who are you?" she blurted out and then mentally slapped herself, this boy was obviously a noble and one did not speak to the nobles in such a manner. Her mother would be appalled if she heard of her rudeness.

"Dracarys Black," he mumbled wearily, seeming to try for a grin before toppling from the saddle and landing in a dusty heap upon the ground.

(*)(*)(*)

**A/N: This is a really short multichapter story that the plot bunny brought to me and is filling my head. It's intended to be five chapters and is set in Medieval Britain, in an era before Hogwarts was founded. I'm sure you have guessed who the girl who Shadowsong found to help Dracarys is?**

**I still fully intend to complete "Call Me Home"**

**Thoughts?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Finding You**

**Chapter Two**

The hot rays of the midmorning sun streamed in through the glassless window, forcing his eyes opened as he shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy mattress he was laying on. Bleary eyed, he tried to sit up, letting out a low groan at the aching pain in his head before slumping back against the rough pillows.

_Where am I?_

He seemed to be in a small hut of some sort, if the thatched roof and scraggly timbered walls were any indication. He was absurdly drawn to the stories his grandmother had told him when he had still stood no higher than her waist, of forest trolls and wandering hags who feasted on the flesh of young princes. Then he snorted at the notion, the hovel seemed far too humane for a monster to live in.

As his senses returned to him he became aware that he was no longer dressed in his hunting finery of tooled leather and cotton. The fabric of his new garments scratched at his smooth skin, itching as if he had fallen asleep on an anthill and the inhabitants had sought retribution. Dracarys felt a sense of alarm at this and after fumbling around the bed – if one could call this misshapen heap a bed – he realised that his sword and bow were missing.

Worse still, so was his wand.

Clutching a hand to his head in an attempt to stave off the dizzying pain that gripped him, he climbed out of bed with a sense of grim determination. He had no idea where he was but one thing was certain, he needed some sort of weapon if he was to defend himself against whatever had brought him here and stripped him of his garments and crown.

He took a step forward and stumbled, falling to the ground as he tripped over a pair of boots. Despite the pain of the new bump on his head he instantly brightened as he caught sight of his hunting boots, deep green calfskin with whorls of silver running down the sides.

As he yanked them on, he realised that if they had left him his boots then it was evident he had not been robbed.

"What are you doing?" he heard an alarmed voice and turned his head to see who had spoken.

Dracarys felt his mouth go dry as he took in the girl standing in the doorway. She was beautiful, shapely figured with brunette curls that cascaded down to the small of her back. She wasn't one of the refined maidens that his mother constantly tried to betroth to him nor was she a sultry beauty like the paramours his eldest brother liked to entertain. The girl, whom he now remembered to be the one he had briefly spoken to before collapsing from his horse's back, was that rare vision of loveliness that didn't need powders and spells to enhance themselves.

His cheeks burned red as he realised that she must have been the one to change his clothes whilst he had been unconscious.

"Looking for my horse," he shrugged as he struggled to his feet. Concern for Shadowsong had been present since he had woken but now that he had assessed that he was not in danger, he was quickly becoming worried for his steed. Especially after the major healing he had performed when they had fallen, it had been quite taxing to his strength and he wasn't sure if he had managed to completely heal the damage.

"He's fine," she said, coming up to him and hooking an arm around his waist. Before he could protest, she had steered him back to bed.

"He's grazing outside," she continued when he glanced at her in irritation, "You on the other hand are not fine."

"I've had worse," Dracarys argued as she turned away and seemed to become occupied with a series of clay jars on the side-table.

"I doubt it," she replied, "You were asleep for four days."

He blanched at her words, spoken in such a calm voice yet still letting him know how much of his energy he had expended in the woods. He internally vowed to take his magical studies more seriously in the future rather than focus solely on his swordplay and archery.

"Where am I?" he asked finally. She turned to face him, holding a small phial in the hands which she held out for him to drink. He raised his eyebrow at her; she had given him no reason to mistrust her but at the same time she was very much a stranger.

"It'll help with your headache," she smiled at his frown, a crooked grin that made her look so much more her age.

"And to answer your question, my village doesn't really have a name, Dracarys," her smile widened as he gulped the mixture and grimaced at the bitter taste. Almost immediately he felt a soothing coolness spread across his temples, softening the worst of his pain.

"That was the vilest thing that I have ever tasted," he returned the smile, grateful for the respite, "And what may I call you?"

"Hermina."

(*)(*)(*)

"What are you doing?" he asked, fighting the urge to laugh when she jumped in surprise. The full moon hung at its apex, filling the room with a soft light, in stark contrast to the harsh howling of the wolves. He should be asleep at this hour but the bed was highly uncomfortable and he had been unable to. He had long since discarded the rough-spun tunic Hermina had changed him into as the course fabric had stung like a thousand fire-ants. Thankfully, she had washed and cleaned his own clothing whilst he had been asleep so the only time he was bare-chested around him was when he slept.

He had been awake when she had stolen into his room and reached for his wand, feeling amused as she twirled the stick between her fingertips like a dancer's baton. Now though, she seemed to be trying to cast and he had been unable to feign sleep any longer.

"I've never seen one before," she whispered, stroking her fingers across his slender wand, absently coaxing a few silver sparks from the tip.

"You're holding it wrong," he said, not upset in the slightest considering she was handling one of his most prized possessions. Seeing as she had saved his life – there was no telling what the majority of his citizens would have done had they come across a prince in full regalia, unconscious and unable to defend himself – he felt that she could be trusted.

Besides, he doubted she knew enough of magic to truly do anything more than conjure a few sparks. Magic was rare amidst the rabble, manifesting solely amongst the noble houses of the cities and of course, the royal family. Her kind was born with the gift but his parents had spoken to him at great length as to how uncouth and contemptible they were. His mother in particular was vocal in her scorn of those with "dirty blood."

Yet, this girl was nothing like the muck that his mother often referred to. She was just a girl, there was no true difference between them save that he had been born with two names and she had been born with one.

"Could you show me how to hold it?" she asked in a timid voice, a shy smile colouring her face as he nodded. The moonlight threw her features into sharp relief as she stepped out of the shadows and he winced to see the simple shift she had on. Threadbare and frayed at every hem, patched in half a hundred places, it screamed of the sheer poverty that he had never before known existed in his realm.

It made him feel ashamed that he had chests upon chests of expensive clothing that he had worn but once and then forgotten about.

"Here," he said as she perched on the side of his bed, he was still too prone to dizziness to stand. Reaching out he fitted her hand into his and began showing her how to grip a wand. Finally when he was happy with her grip, he let go, though it went unnoticed how their fingers lingered intertwined for a mere second longer than required.

"Try to levitate something," he issued the challenge with a spark in his eye. He really wanted to test his mother's claims and see if this girl really was as weak as her kind was portrayed to be.

Hermina's face screwed up in concentration as she aimed the wand at the side table. Dracarys could see that she was biting her lip, her eyes focused as she glared at the clay pot she used to store her herbs.

The pot shivered and lay still, and Dracarys could not help but feel disappointed.

"Not everyone gets it on their first try," he reassured her, suddenly freezing when she set down the wand and slipped her hand into her pocket. A strange expression crossed her face and he took note that it was identical to the look he often wore when he was determined to prove himself to his more accomplished siblings. A faint red glow throbbed in her pocket and suddenly he realised that he was hovering two feet above the surface of the bed.

"Woah," he exclaimed, noticing the furniture, potion bottles and even the leaves blown in through the open window floating around the room, "You can put me down now."

She giggled as a deep fatigue seemed to settle over her face and all that had been levitated slowly floated down to settle upon the floor or in his case, the bed. He was sure that his own descent was remarkably lacking in the gentleness she had exercised upon her potion bottles and jars of herbs. He let out a breathless laugh, his mirth quickly joined by her own as he lay and she sat, two heads thrown back as loud guffaws spilled from their throats.

Whilst laughing, all he could think of was:

_She's more powerful than I am. . ._

(*)(*)(*)

"Mina," called the herbalist, Jaina, her grey hair twisted into a bun as she stood in the main room of their cottage.

Hermina stared guiltily at her mother, a deer caught in the headlights. It was apparent her mother had been waiting for her to leave their guest's side and had been watching all that had transpired between the pair.

"He is a nobleman," said the older woman knowingly, "Do not let yourself dream of such things when we both know they are impossible."

"I know, Mama," she sighed because she knew her mother's concerns were valid. Whilst she scoffed at the notions of love at first sight, she could not help but feel enraptured by this platinum youth. She doubted that it was a romantic inclination, rather she felt drawn to his life and knowledge and experiences, all so different from her own.

Judging by his circlet, he was most definitely a member of the royal family and she knew that it was foolish to think that he would stay here forever just to entertain her foolish delusions of learning about grandeur.

Tonight she had held a wand; she had cast a spell with a wand. Honestly, she didn't see what all the fuss was about the sticks now that she had used them. Her magic seems decidedly stronger with the use of her stone than with the magical instrument. Then again, he had informed her that he had used his wand to completely heal Shadowsong's broken leg and that was no small feat.

She wondered if his skill with a wand came from years of practice, just as years using her stone had helped her develop an affinity for it. At the end of the day it was but a waking dream that would soon be forgotten in the light of dawn.

Her birth was too low to allow for her dreams to be anything but dreams. The stories Dracarys had told her as he healed had taken her the furthest from her village than she ever had in her life.

One thing was certain though; Dracarys had definitely been impressed by her levitation spell.

That was something she could treasure for the rest of her life.

(*)(*)(*)

_**A/N: Thoughts? If you liked this chapter, please do leave a review.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Finding You**

**Chapter Three**

Hermina felt her jaw drop open at the sight before her. It was still early, the first rays of dawn just peeking out from beneath the horizon, and two weeks had flown by in the blink of an eye. Today was the day that she needed to go out and restore her healing supplies. Thankfully, she would not have to venture into the forest this time as her herbs and roots were still well stocked. She was, however, well aware that her fresh water plant supplies were woefully depleted.

She had mentioned this to Dracarys the previous night and had noted that his shimmering silver eyes had brimmed with curiosity at the notion. Still, she hadn't expected something like this from a noble, and considering that he was a prince of the royal family had long since quashed all her delusions of grandeur.

"Hey," he grinned at her from Shadowsong's back, dressed in a loose tunic of cotton and his hunting leggings. His bow and quiver were strapped across his back and there was a twinkle in his eye as he winked at her dumbfounded expression.

"What are you doing up so early?" she asked, her stomach tightening and twisting at the notion that he was leaving. She had only known him for a fortnight but despite her mother's warning, Hermina had begun to think of his as a friend. She didn't have that many friends anymore, not since the plague had decimated their village.

It had become their nightly ritual to stay up, sitting side by side on his borrowed bed and talking about the differences of their lives. Hermina didn't know if she believed all the tales he spun for her, of armour forged from dragon-scales, ships with sail's of coloured silk and corsairs who wore their weight in gold. Then again, it was so hard not to believe every fascinating word that spilled forth from his lips, each sentence drawing her into a world that she knew she could never exist in. His life was gold and silver, hers was mud and leaves. To deny it was to deny their very existence.

"Waiting for you," he chuckled as she nearly dropped her baskets in surprise, "You did say that the river is quite a ways away . . . we'll get there faster on Shadow."

"We?" she asked timidly, a shy smile forming across her lips as she savoured the implications of the word. _He's royalty, Hermina,_ she scolded herself, _you can't think such things about him._

But despite being third in line to the throne of the realm in which she lived, Dracarys had always seemed just as intrigued by her life as she was by his.

"I'm not letting you ride my horse alone," he replied with a faux haughty tone, a smirk of victory crossing his face as she shook her head and came up beside him. Hermina bit her lip as she mounted the stallion, glaring at Dracarys when his smirk deepened at her obvious ineptitude on horseback.

"You need to put your arms around my waist," he pointed once she had somehow managed to climb up behind him. Two pairs of cheeks burned hot and pink as his words, spoken out of habit, sank in. Eventually, Hermina slid forward to take a more comfortable position and linked her fingers together on the other side of him, careful to keep her hands safely away from his intimate areas.

"Let's go, Shadow," urged Dracarys and Hermina involuntarily tightened her grip on him as the fear of falling welled in her, twisting in the gut like molten lead. The steed took off at a trot, glad to finally have the comforting weight of his owner in his saddle where he belonged.

She had never meant to notice the finer things about Dracarys, the way his lithe muscles rippled beneath his pale skin, the contours of his high cheekbones and collarbones, the way in which her arms fit so perfectly around him as they rode.

She bit her lip in frustration, not realising where that last thought had come from. They did not fit together. They could not fit together. He was everything she was not. Dracarys was something she could never dare to want for.

But he was also everything that she needed.

As the pair reached the edge of the village circle, Hermina became acutely aware of her mother standing in their doorway, a disapproving glare etched across her lined, weather-beaten face.

(*)(*)(*)

As they rode over grassy hillocks and through fields of wilting crops, Dracarys was deeply aware of Hermina pressed up against his back, her arms linked around his waist. Her breath ghosted over the back of his neck, warm as a summer night and scented with mint leaves and blueberries, simple and sweet and earthy all at once.

He wasn't sure what it was that had possessed him to leave his bed that morning, far before the sun had deigned to shed its glare across the world, but he was for some reason glad that he had done so. It could have been that he had grown bored being cooped up in a tiny hut all day or that he had grown curious as to the scenery of his locale, but that would be a lie. He felt it in his heart of hearts, the reason that he had roused himself in the pre-dawn gloom and prepared himself for a day of riding.

His reason sat beside him, her body flush against his as Shadowsong navigated the dusty trail.

He had just wanted to spend more time with Hermina, a girl whose very existence caused him to question everything he had ever known. His mother's scorn for her kind, his brothers' treatment of women in general, his father's lowly opinion of _mudbloods_ . . . they weren't true. They were but prejudiced presumptions made by those who had never left the sanctuary of the palace walls save to piss upon the rabble.

"Where are the other children?" he asked when the silence became to deafening to bare. It was a question that had been bothering him for quite some time now, as he had yet to see many other youngsters in the village. He had been there for a fortnight and as far as he could tell, there were but three that were of Hermina's age and a sparse smattering of children. The mood seemed to darken as the words escaped his lips, he could feel her body tense against his as her arms grew painfully tight around his torso.

"There aren't any others," she replied, and her voice was so deep with sadness that Dracarys instantly regretted broaching the subject.

"How?" he blurted out, his curiosity overriding his better judgement. He stifled a groan at his own bluntness. Why could he have not learned the tact and subtle art of diplomacy that his sister, Illythia, was famed for? Or at the very least, the ability to smooth talk women that was so pronounced in his oldest brother, William.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried," he said, horrified when he felt the dampness of her tears against his shoulder. Quickly, he tugged on Shadowsong's reins to get the steed to stop before turning in his saddle just enough so that he could face her.

"It's OK," she feigned a smile but he could see the deep echoes of mourning stained across her eyes, "The plague hit my village harder than most."

"But the Ghost Plague was curable," he protested, not heeding the warning signs off fresh tears forming in the crevices of those haunted brown eyes, "The apothecaries churned out more antidotes than we knew what to do with."

"Medicine," she said the word like a curse as she looked up to meet his eyes, and he was surprised to see the rage that burned beneath her anguish, "Requires gold and of that we have none. My mother and I did all we could to heal those stricken with the plague but all we could do was ease their passing and pray for our own survival."

"But . . ." he felt her words like a cold slap across his face, the injustice of her poverty rearing before him and sinking envenomed fangs into his heart. His father had told him that the medicine was going to be freely distributed to those stricken. . . He had sworn that he would be dispatching caravans to the most distant villages and fishing quays to bring them aid and succour.

"My father sent medicine to all corners of the realm," he whispered to her, feeling the lies he had been told his entire life come crashing down around him as he remembered the bitter looks upon the villagers, the scrawny frames of the surviving children, the haggard expressions worn by the womenfolk who had braved the day and worked the fields. He had watched them from the window in his room, wondering as to the cause of their misery but too afraid to ask Hermina for the answers.

Now that he had asked her, he wasn't sure that he liked what he was hearing.

"Why would the crown care for those beneath them?" she responded dully and somehow, Dracarys felt as though she was talking of more than withheld medicine and uncaring nobles.

"Some of us do care," was all he said before spurring Shadowsong into a canter.

(*)(*)(*)

"You're going in there?" Dracarys' eyes widened at the notion as he watched her pull of her boots of toughened, worn leather and hike up her skirt so that it hung to her knees rather than to her ankles.

"How else am I supposed to collect water plants, if I don't go into the water?" she rolled her eyes at him.

"But . . . it's muddy . . . and there are frogs in there," he protested.

Hermina raised her eyebrows in amusement as she stepped closer to the river, her toes skimming the edges of the swiftly flowing stream before looking at him over her shoulder.

"Frogs?" she questioned, smirking as he flushed bright red at her remark.

"What if they bite?" he mumbled, barely loud enough for her to hear.

"They don't even have teeth, Dracarys," she laughed, before a splendid idea overtook her. She moved forward before feigning that she was slipping, falling backwards into the waters and paddling just enough so that she wouldn't go under.

"HELP!" she shrieked, hoping the mirth in her voice was well disguised.

Dracarys had paled; his eyes wide with anxiety as he rushed forward and flung himself into the water to grab hold of her, suddenly freezing beside her as he realised how shallow the water was. If he stood, it would be just a little lower than his waist.

"That . . . was . . . not funny," he gasped, gnashing his teeth together as she giggled, grinning at how his hair clung wetly to his brow, before averting her gaze. The water had caused his clothing to stick to his body in the most alluring way imaginable and she did not want to be caught staring. She remembered the night she had first changed him out of his hunting regalia, how flushed and fevered his skin had been, how fine his hair had felt beneath her fingertips. Suddenly, she turned away, because she could only imagine how she must appear to him with her own attire plastered to her frame.

She felt something strike her in the back and she shrieked at the slick feeling, whirling to find a second ball of mud and silt flying towards her, hitting her in the chest and trailing down her blouse. Several feet away, Dracarys grinned at her, his fingers dripping with mud as he reached down to pull up another clump from the river banks.

"Oh, it's on," she smiled her crooked grin and ducked under his next volley to scoop up a projectile of her own.

Hermina found herself laughing as the sticky rivulets of mud dribbled down his hair and dripped over his nose, the look of sheer horror in his eyes to humorous to look at without collapsing with mirth. Her eyes widened as they fell upon a single frog sitting beside the river, surveying the pair of them through bulbous eyes. Grin widening, she reached forward and wrapped her fingers around it, ignoring the loud croak of protest.

Turning back towards Dracarys, she held the amphibian behind her back and stalked towards him.

_This will be fun, _she thought and sure enough, his shrieks of terror were probably the most hilarious sight she had seen or heard in weeks.

(*)(*)(*)

"I love coming out here," said Hermina, her voice soft as she tied her baskets to Shadowsong's saddle, her eyes never leaving the pristine landscape before her. The river snaked its way through the grassy hills, disappearing into the forest beyond in a torrent of lilies and reeds. Behind them, the dull roar of the waterfall echoed through her ears, the faintest spray of white water trailing over them as the waters of the mountains came crashing down from above.

"Why?" he asked curiously, still dismayed at the thought of riding home in damp, muddied clothing. Ordinarily, he would suggest that they strip down and allow their clothes to dry off in the sunlight but of course, he didn't trust himself to remain in his smallclothes in front of Hermina. Nor did he think he would cope with having to see her in her undergarments.

He had thought to use magic to dry his clothes but the only manner of heating he knew would likely also set them both on fire. For her part, she seemed quite at ease, covered in the flavours of nature.

"It's beautiful," she replied. Something seemed to come over him in that moment and before he could catch himself, he murmured:

"Yes, she is beautiful."

Hermina blushed when she felt his gaze on her, the fluttering in her stomach becoming painful in its intensity as she felt him place his arms around her.

"Dracarys, you're a prince . . . It's wrong for you to think such things about me. We're from two different worlds," she managed to say as she felt his lips brush against her cheek.

"That's what makes it real," he murmured, his mind crying out in frustration as his heart drew his lips forwards to meet hers.

They were but less than an inch apart, Hermina's lips so close to his that he could stick out his tongue and flick her crooked smile if he so chose and his heart exploded as he felt her lean in so that for the barest second, he was able to savour the ghosted caress of mint and blueberries.

Then she pulled away in alarm, her eyes widening as the thrum of hoofbeats fell upon their ears. Turning, Dracarys cursed under his breath. He knew whose horse that was.

The steed was white as snow, mane and tail flashing like fire in the midday sun as the rider bore down upon them. As she drew nearer, Hermina could discern a cascade of sable ringlets and glimmering, feminine armour, complete with a slender, curved sabre sheathed at her waist. A circlet of white gold, almost identical to the one worn by Dracarys, graced her brow. A trio of emeralds burned like emerald flames as centrepiece caught the light and then she was reigning in her mare before them.

It was with a mischievous glint in her silvery-grey eyes that the lone rider grinned at her brother, her first words of greeting spilling forth from lightly painted pink lips.

"Well, brother, it's about time you found a dance partner who isn't your right hand."


	4. Chapter 4

**Finding You**

**Chapter Four**

"As far as commoners go, she is quite beautiful," mused Illythia aloud, an amused twinkle in her eyes as Dracarys whipped around to face her, a deep blush colouring his otherwise pale cheeks. Night had long since fallen and Hermina had retired for the night, thoroughly embarrassed by the events of the day. For Dracarys, sleep has proved evasive and he had braved the cool night air to groom Shadowsong. It was one of the things his parents and eldest brother frowned upon, that he would do the job of a stableman where his horse was concerned but it was also the one subject on which he would not be swayed. Shadowsong was his steed and running a brush through his coat was something he had done since they were but boy and foal.

To his chagrin, Illythia had joined him.

"She is far from common," he replied before he could stop himself, inwardly cringing at her knowing look. His sister had always been too omniscient for his own good, her ability to read people like books were one of the few things that truly made her the most lethal of the Black royal family. That . . . and her skill with a blade.

"Dracarys," her voice was soft, startling him with the care that filled her tone, "Don't allow yourself to dream of things we both know will ever come to fruition. The Crown . . . our mother, she will never allow a peasant to grace the Hall of Kings. Mother will never allow her heir to wed a girl of such low birth."

"I am not the heir," Dracarys said forcefully, "William is the eldest."

"William is a sloth; a brute and a craven with no ambition save for thoughts of where next to stick his cock," her response surprised him for he had never expected her to share his sentiments, "and Alexander has already taken the Vow, he will never reign. No, brother, the crown will pass to you and you alone."

"Xander has joined the Order?" he asked in surprise. The Order of Roses was the highest level of knights in the realm, they took no wives and held no lands or titles of their own, foreswearing all allegiances but to King and crown. His brother had been enamoured with them from an early age and had lately been speaking of joining their ranks but Dracarys had never thought him to be serious. Their parents rage alone would have served as a sufficient deterrent in his eyes, but then again, Alexander Black had always possessed more bravery than the rest of the royal family combined.

"I was surprised as well," she answered, "Mother's rage was terrifying to behold but that does not change the issue, you cannot fall in love with this girl for if you do, the realm will bleed."

"Despite his shortcomings, William is still the oldest," Dracarys defended his position stubbornly; the desperate tugging of his heartstrings telling him that his sister's warning had come a tad too late. Perhaps, if she had found him before his lips had brushed against Hermina's, then he could have forgotten her in time and returned to the Capital. But their kiss, if one could call it a kiss, had stirred something in him that he had never felt before in his life.

"William cannot father children," snapped Illythia, her patience at an end, for whilst she sympathized with her younger brother, she also knew that their duty was to the realm and not to their hearts, "You weren't to know, not yet at any rate, but now even father looks to you to carry on the line!"

"Then why don't you take the crown?" Dracarys cried, his voice splitting the quiet of the night, his anger flaring as he realised how his parents had backed him into a corner.

"You know that I can't . . ." her voice was soft again as she knelt down beside him, steadying his trembling hand with her own against Shadow's flank, "Believe me, Dracarys, if I could then I would, I would do all in my power to see you happy."

"Why me? Why not William or Alexander?"

She laughed at his question. Truly, Dracarys was so precocious for his age that she often forgot that he had seen but sixteen winters, that he was the most youthful of the House of Black. She had been born three years before him, but she could still vividly remember the day he had come kicking and screaming into the world; the day that even the trees had seemed to whisper the name, _Dracarys._

"When you were a baby, it was I who sat vigil beside your crib through the long nights, not mother, not father, not even our brothers. It was I who sang you lullabies when you were a squalling child who could never get our parents attention. It was I who taught you how to wield your first sword, I who trained you to fire an arrow. You are my favourite brother, Dracarys, and I only want you to be happy as I never was."

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came forth, he stared at her dumbfounded. He loved his sister, but he had always seen her presence as if she had been obligated to be there.

"Now get some sleep, baby brother, we're riding back to the capital come dawn."

"So soon?" Dracarys seemed crestfallen.

"Better sooner than later. And do not think to bring the girl with us, we cannot live for love."

Illythia had rarely showed him real warmth as they had grown older and now, he thought he knew why. Suspicions that had long since been bubbling in the depths of his mind now were solidified into a question that he should have asked Illythia years ago.

"The ranger?" he asked, and now he could feel her own hand begin to shake as his had just moments before.

"Altair and I . . ." she broke off, unable to speak, "We have all been tested, Dracarys. But we are Blacks, our lives are to be lived in the service of the Realm . . . not our own hearts."

"I'm not as strong as you are, Thia," a faint smile crossing his lips as she smiled, albeit faintly, at his use of her childhood nickname for her.

"You are a Black," she replied, rising from the ground, a brief yawn spilling from her mouth before she turned from him and walked back towards the hovel that was Hermina's cottage.

"You can be as strong as you need to be, when the time comes.

(*)(*)(*)

"Hermina," he whispered, tenderly shaking her awake as the moon hung low across the night sky. Her room was plain and nondescript, devoid of the silk and cashmere he had grown accustomed too, yet there was no doubt that the room exuded a sense of warmth his did not.

It was the simple truth of the matter; that home was something that was created by the people within it and not the material objects that they could purchase.

"Dracarys," she stirred, her eyes cracking open, before widening as she noted his proximity to her. Before another word could be spoken, her threadbare sheets had been pulled up to her throat and she had involuntarily flinched away from his perch on the edge of her bed.

He felt a subtle knife bury itself in his heart, because he knew that she knew what he was about to say and was even now trying to pull away from him. He wished he could do the same but Hermina was a candle-flame and he was but a moth, drawn to her flickering light till inevitably, he knew he would be burned.

"I'm going back home tomorrow," he said softly, inwardly cringing at the look of resignation in her eyes.

"I know," she replied, sitting up against the wall and choosing to stare out the window rather than at him, "I knew from the moment your sister arrived."

She smiled at him but he could tell it was a facade; the smile was too perfect to be genuine. When Hermina was truly happy, her smile was crooked and brimming with unshed laughter. Her eyes would light up with glimmers of mirth.

"Hermina . . . I . . . I . . . enjoyed our time together," he finished lamely, unable to fully express himself. What could he say? Could he tell her that he may be falling in love with her? That would just break both their hearts. For once his cowardice stood in his favour for if it was never said, then perhaps it would never be.

For words once spoken, could cloud them both in a lifetime of regret.

"So did I," she smiled at him, "I'll always remember your stories about The Guild of Flowers and the Rangers." He returned her false smile, because it was easier to pretend to part happily than to part as they truly should, and corrected her:

"The Order of Roses, they would be most aggrieved if they heard you call them the Guild of Flowers."

"Are not roses, flowers?" there were traces of her usual teasing personality traced through her sombre voice, "And is a Guild not and Order of sorts?"

"Is not a girl a wench? Shall I call you that?" he shot back, a light grin teasing his face as his worries were forgotten. It was just another night now, with them staying up side by side on the same bed and sharing tales of their lives.

"Would you call your sister a wench? Your mother?"

"No. I would call my sister an Iron Maiden, and there is but one word that can best describe my mother, scary," his grin deepened at the sound of her laughter.

"She can't be that bad," she giggled at his expression, he looked as though he was soon to be sick.

"When my father was to wed, my grandmother assembled all those she deemed worthy of him and gave them a challenge. The lady who most impressed her was to win my father's hand," his voice took of the animated qualities of a young boy as he spun his story, her own eyes glimmered as she listened to him, enraptured by what was no doubt to be their last story.

"And what did your mother do?"

"My siblings and I did not inherit our skill with a bow from our father," he smirked, "We got it from our mother, who was able to shoot down a dragon in midflight, by firing an arrow into its eye."

Hermina's jaw dropped open in disbelief because truly, his mother did sound like a terrifying woman. She had little experience with the great Wyrms that inhabited the lands across the sea, or the smaller beasts that roamed the mountains of her own realm. But she did know that they spewed fire hot enough to melt rock, had claws strong enough to rend metal and spat acidic venom so poisonous that it could kill a dozen men with a single drop.

And now she knew that her queen was one of the few people in history to have earned the title, _Dragonslayer._

She began to speak but her words died in her throat as she caught sight of the view outside her window. Her mirth and joy was snuffed out in an instant as the first rays of dawn began to spill over the distant mountains, a molten expanse of red and gold slashing across the rosy sky. It was sunrise, it was time to say goodbye.

"I'm going to miss you, Dracarys," she mumbled, looking down at her sheets so that he would not see her tears. She had known him for so little time but he had so enamoured her that it stung like the last of steel tipped whip that it was now time to say farewell to her waking dreams.

She felt lithe arms wrap around her and she wished that he would just leave instead of lingering, because now with him so close to her, she had no choice but to inhale his luxurious scent. She pulled away but then, chocolate eyes met silver grey, and the world seemed to pause.

"Come with me," he said, his voice breathy and low as he leaned in so that his forehead brushed against hers. There was a tone of pleading in his voice that Hermina had never heard before, a tone that she could just not say no to.

Her life was here. Her mother was here. Her friends, those that had survived the plague, were here. Everything that she had ever known was here, in this village, where she had been born and bred.

"I'll follow you, Dracarys, wherever you will lead me," and her heart raced as she felt his lips against hers.

(*)(*)(*)

Hermina yawned tiredly as she settled down beside the warm fire, the aroma of roasting duck spitting wafting into her nostrils and causing her to salivate hungrily. Dracarys leaned against a nearby tree, eyes half shut from exhaustion as their steeds grazed beside him, swishing their luxurious tails to ward of the flies.

True to her word she had left the village with Dracarys and whilst she truly was ecstatic to be starting a new chapter of her life, Hermina could not help but feel that they were the only two who were pleased with the arrangement. The villagers had been loath to let their best healer go but at the end of the day, she knew that the village held nothing for her save a tired life of healing the sick and raising a brood of children beside one of the surviving men her own age.

It was not the life she wanted but had been one that she had accepted she would live. Dracarys had battered down the stones upon which her future had been carved and he had given her the chance to live a life of excitement and wonder, one that she could scarce dream off.

Better still, she could live it with him at her side. When she had asked him what she would be doing in the city, he had smirked and told her that all royals must keep their own retainers. Hermina understood that romantically, their morning kiss would probably be their last, but at least she would have him in her life as a friend.

Her mother had been downright livid. Jaina had shrieked and cursed when she had announced her decision to leave but in the end had been forced to watch her daughter ride away on the back of a stranger's horse, anguished hate etched upon her worn features. Hermina would miss her mother . . . but she was now a woman grown and her choices were her own. She would live as a member of Dracarys' council; she would be his friend and healer. It held so much more promise than marrying Roland, the village's local miller.

But of all those who seemed angered by her choice to accompany Dracarys, none could rival Illythia Black, whose murderous glares were enough to make her blood curdle in her veins. Right now though, Hermina started when she realised that the princess was making her way towards her and that Dracarys' eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling gently as sleep overtook him.

The duck spat and hissed fat as Illythia turned it over the crackling flames, a smirk playing on her lips when she saw Hermina's surprised expression. She had not expected a royal to know how to roast a fresh fowl but she was quickly learning that nothing was as it seemed when it came to the House of Black.

"You seem surprised," noted Illythia and once again, Hermina was taken aback by the lilt in her voice. She seemed so whimsical and free-spirited that the traces of steel and venom that always flavoured her words were only visible if you looked.

"I am," she replied, not seeing any reason to lie.

"I've been riding across this country on missions of diplomacy for the better part of two years," the princess replied, running her blade through the duck so that the juices fell in great hissing drops into the fire. It was an old hunter's trick, noted Hermina, to ensure the meal cooked on the inside as well as the out.

"You must have met so many villagers," Hermina baited, "And I doubt you have ever met one that you dislike as much as you do me." Her indignation rose when the other woman laughed in response, raven curls bouncing in the moonlight.

"I do not know you well enough to like or dislike you so I do neither," finally managed Illythia when finally she composed herself, "I merely dislike that you have made my brother's path irrevocably more difficult. You know that he has feelings for you . . . and you know he can never act on them without staining the realm with blood."

"You seem to be speaking from experience," pointed out Hermina, taking note of the flitter of pain that had welled in Illythia's tone when she spoke, or how her voice had broken when she had mentioned Dracarys' feelings.

"I know that people of my birth can never be allowed to marry those with yours," murmured Illythia in a strained voice and Hermina decided to let the subject rest for the nonce.

"I would never willingly hurt him," she said quietly, "He's my friend."

"Then there is one thing we do have in common," Illythia spoke slowly, as if contemplating her words carefully before speaking, "We both care about Dracarys."

"Perhaps we aren't that different after all," agreed Hermina, rising from the ground so as to go rouse the boy in question, for their dinner was now ready.

"Oh, Hermina," laughed the princess, "It is being the same is what makes us different."

(*)(*)(*)

**A/N: Thoughts?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Finding You**

**Chapter Five**

Hermina's breath ghosted along the back of his neck as Shadowsong and Snowdancer galloped across the forgotten moors, her body pressed tightly to his as they rode double, her fear palpable as their speed increased. Beside them, her sable ringlets whipping like a cloud of shadow in the wind, rode Illythia, lilting laughter flowing from her lips as she caught side of Hermina's terrified expression.

They had been riding since the early hours of the morning, determined to reach the capital before nightfall. This was a dangerous part of the realm for despite being less than a days' ride from the capital, it was a haven for brigands and outlaws. Even the wealthiest trade caravans were often wary when crossing this expanse, often preferring to come into the city by sea rather than risk the dangers of the road. Their guards offered little protection with regards to the cunning trickery of the bandits.

Dracarys was as skilled with a bow as any archer in the realm and Illythia was the essence of lethality when her sword was in hand, but nevertheless he kept an eye on the surroundings as they rode, keeping an eye out for the faintest trace of trouble. When riding through the moors, one could never be too careful, especially when travelling with two women.

The white gold circlets he and his sister usually wore had been stuffed into their saddlebags so as not to make a target of themselves and all was going well –in Dracarys' opinion that is – when Illythia reined in her steed and shot him a warning look.

"What is it?" his voice was hushed as he reached behind him to undo the straps on his bow, ready to take it in hand at a moment's notice.

"Crossbowmen on the crags," she responded, her eyes flicking towards the precipices that bordered the eastern expanse of the moors. Dracarys swallowed as he looked up, noting the subtle glint of sunlight on armour as Hermina tightened her grasp around him, hers eyes alert as she surveyed the grassy lands around them.

"There, in those bushes," she breathed into Dracarys' ear, years of living in a rural village having outfitted her with knowledge of nature that the royals lacked. The leaves swayed in the wind, yet the twiggy boughs were still as if held in place, glimmers of rusted metal visible every so often before the leaves would settle back into place.

"You have a sharp eye," noted Illythia, her eyes hardening as she took in their situation, "Make for that hill, the higher ground may give us an advantage . . ."

"And the crossbows?" queried Dracarys as he spurred Shadowsong into an easy canter, so as not to make known to the brigands that they had been made.

"The glare of the sun will be against them," smirked Illythia, "But you will have an easy shot."

"I can bring them down," Dracarys returned her smirk and for a moment, Hermina lost sight of the boy he was and saw the Black within.

(*)(*)(*)

His arrow cut through the air, the swan feather fletching making up for the strong winds as it buried itself through the throat of one crossbowman. The man toppled from the precipice, dead long before his body shattered upon the rocky ground below but there was no time for Dracarys to acknowledge the phenomenal shot, there were two more men on those ledges and he was already nocking his fourth arrow, determined to fell another of his foes.

Despite his prodigious skill at archery, the wind and distance was causing him difficulty in making his mark and it had taken three arrows to skewer the first of the brigands. A heavy thrumming sound filled the air just as he let fly the arrow, ducking at the last second to avoid the slew of quarrels which punched through the air.

_Six quarrels from two men?_

He rolled to the left to dodge the second storm of bolts, nocking and firing an arrow and smirking as his target let out a cry and plummeted, shrieking at the shaft of steel-tipped wood that was imbedded into his thigh. As he dodged and took aim again, he took careful note that their weapons were of a foreign style, for no English crossbow could shoot three bolts at once.

A scream split the air and his attention was diverted from the lone crossbowman on the cliffs. He whirled on his feet, heart plunging as he took in the burly axe-wielding brute advancing on Hermina. The brunette girl was backing away, knees shaking as she clutched a hunting knife in her hands, and from her stance Dracarys could tell she had never used one before. Illythia was too far away to help, her own blade cutting crimson arcs through the air as she spun and wove around her opponents, a foursome of hoary brigands clutching an assortment of wickedly honed weapons.

Before he could so much as draw an arrow from his quiver, Hermina had stumbled and fallen to the ground, her face screwed up in pain as the man raised his axe to the skies. Then there was a thunder of hooves and the man flew back, his face split open by the force of Shadowsong's kick. The stallion circled Hermina as she got to her feet, velvety nostrils flaring at the few who had thought the herbalist to be easy prey.

"DRACARYS! LOOK OUT," Illythia's scream tore the air as he bit his tongue in pain, his left calf feeling as if it had been fisted with a chainmail gauntlet. He staggered to his knees, a whimper of pain spilling between his clenched teeth as his eyes fell on the twin quarrels buried into his flesh. Dammit, he had been too distracted by Hermina's scream to have noticed the crossbowman on the escarpment taking aim on him. Worse still, the quarrel-heads were barbed, sure to have shredded his flesh as they slid through his leg.

Hermina was at his side before he knew it, one arm wrapped under his shoulders to keep him from falling, a dull ruby flashing with fiery light from her clenched fist as she holds out the other arm towards the scraggly cliffs, palm open and fingers splayed. The crossbowman takes aim and Dracarys reaches for his quiver, feeling light headed from the pain but Hermina is faster, a searing ball of flame screeching from her palm and slamming into the cliff-face before either man could fire their shot.

An entire shelf of rock breaks free under the force of the impact, the man tumbling head over broken heels as his perch falls away beneath him, burying him and his slain comrades in dust and stone.

Black spots are playing across his vision as he turns to see his sister whipping around, her razor sharp blade slashing opening the throat of one poor fool who let his guard down a second too long before spinning to stab another through the belly. Blood gushes hot and fast, staining her pale skin as her blade is wrenched from her grasp by the dying man. She backed away, drawing twin long blades from her belt as half a dozen men broke from their cover and charged towards her.

Hermina slumped against him, the exhaustion of having expended so much magical energy is so short a time to much for her to bear. Dracarys made to nock another arrow but his vision was to blurry to take aim, he couldn't fire without risking hitting his sister by accident.

Illythia dug in her heels, her expression grim as the brigands neared, the two surviving men she had been facing earlier stepping out of her reach as she neared, content to await their reinforcements.

Eight against one . . . and Illythia stood defiant, hate etched upon her bloodied face.

Dizziness overtook Dracarys as the world began fading to grey, colour seeping away, when a hail of arrows crested over his head and felled three of the brigands. A thunderous echo of hooves thumped the ground, and when Dracarys shifted to see who had come to their aid, he realised that he had never before been happier to see the banners of _Tojours Pur_ or the knights who bore them.

(*)(*)(*)

"How is he?" asked Illythia, wincing as her brother trailed his nimble fingers over the gashes on her arm, put there by a particularly fast swordsman. Vivid blue sparks danced from his fingertips and played across her skin, knitting together the sinew, skin and flesh, a painful process as Alexander had never truly mastered the healing arts.

"He's doing well, thanks to that herbalist he keeps," he muttered, face screwed up in concentration as he focused on the healing sparks. Magic ran in his blood but, like Dracarys and unlike Illythia, he hadn't spent much time studying further than the basics. Still, he was a shade better than his sister, who although was most learned could exercise little control over her power.

Illythia was like a geyser, that once tapped would not cease till completely exhausted. It was the reason she rarely used magic, it was too unstable in her hands and left her weakened and delirious for days. Alexander for his part, had never used his wand save for when he was a child. He preferred the raw magic that he could command with his hands, rather than the more docile arts that those who wielded wands were famed for.

"You gave us quite a scare, baby sister," continued Alexander, "Sneaking out on your own to go searching for our wayward brother . . . your ranger was most unimpressed."

"Somebody had to," laughed Illythia, "And Altair would worry if I decided to go to the marketplace without an escort."

"He has your best interests at heart," there was a knowing look in Alexander's eyes that she liked not one bit.

"He is my sworn shield, dear brother," she replied, feeling ill at ease as her Alexander continued to stare at her in that omniscient way, "My best interests are his duty."

"It must be a curse upon our family," shrugged Alexander as he leaned against a tree, close to her so they both were staring into the panting campfire. Alexander and his knights had arrived just in time – they had been scouring the countryside for both herself and Dracarys for the past five days, ever since she had left – and their blades and arrows had been a goddess-send. She shuddered to think off what would have befallen them had he not been there. It had been her against eight . . . and she held no illusions of survival against such odds.

"A curse?" asked Illythia, curious as to what he was implying as she watched a log collapse upon itself and send a shower of sparks into the sky.

"To want what we can never have," he sighed as her expression became guarded, her facade of indifference slipping into place.

"I know not of what you speak," Illythia said coolly. Across from them, near the swiftly gushing brook, Hermina tended to Dracarys' wounds. Her baby brother was paler than she had ever seen him and he could scarce support his own weight, but infection had been staved off by Hermina's knowledge of herb-lore and woodcraft. A poultice of ginger and firepod seeds had been wrapped around the puckered wounds on his calf, and though Dracarys complained of how severely it burned, the herbalist firmly maintained that fire burns away all impurities.

"I'm sure you don't," he scoffed, "Don't think me as blind as William or our parents, I know what goes on behind closed doors."

"As do I," countered Illythia, "One wouldn't want mother to know of your indiscretions with that squire, now would they?" His expression hardened and for a split second, Illythia thought that he may strike her but then the anger seemed to subside and Alexander gave her a harsh look.

"I am a knight of the Order," he snarled through gritted teeth, "My birth no longer condemns my actions . . . but you and Dracarys will be expected to marry highborn nobles – not a ranger and a herbalist."

"I know," she said softly, her attention falling back to the dancing flames, "Do you think I did not warn him to leave the girl in her village? Do you think I wanted him to suffer as you and I have?"

"You should have done the humane thing and slit her throat whilst she slept," muttered Alexander coldly, "She will be tormented in the capital, the corruption and intrigues of the royal court will destroy her."

"You forget, brother," murmured Illythia, "That even the most fragile of flowers can weather a winter if nurtured. Dracarys will not see her come to harm."

"Aye, he won't. But he will destroy himself doing so."

Illythia sighed at his words before glancing towards the younger pair beside the brook. Hermina knelt beside Dracarys as she changed the dressings on his wounds, a fresh poultice prepared and ready to be applied. There was a tenderness in her touch that Illythia had never before seen in a healer, a desire to help that so many in her profession lacked.

_Love is like a delicate china teacup. The harder you hold on, the more likely it is to crack._

This sentiment was followed by a pang of pain through her heart as she watched her brother and the girl he loved laughing beside the bubbling brook, not a care in the world apart from each other. She had never seen Dracarys so carefree, so at ease in the company of another person. A sad smile creased her features as she watched Hermina's cheeks flush red at something Dracarys had said and then saw her smile as he reached out to wipe a fleck of dirt from her chin.

_I hope you know what you're doing, brother._

(*)(*)(*)

"How's your leg?" asked Hermina, concern heavy in her voice as she felt him wince against her. Shadowsong's hoof had clipped against a stone, jostling them both in the saddle and causing Dracarys' wounded leg to jolt against his horse's flank.

"It doesn't burn anymore," he grumbled, his lips pursing petulantly as he felt rather than saw her grin. It was his opinion that she took great delight in reminding him that he was behaving like a squalling infant whenever his dressings had to be changed. For her part, Hermina had been firm in that he needed the poultice to prevent infection and decay from setting in. She had felt incredibly guilty whenever he would smart in pain though – she knew that if he hadn't been so focused on her wellbeing then he wouldn't have taken the quarrels at all.

"That means it's healing," she smiled, ignoring the dirty looks she was receiving from Alexander Black. Like Illythia, he seemed to have taken no issue with her as a person but rather, had been angered by the familiarity that existed between herself and Dracarys.

Alexander need not worry for Hermina knew that Dracarys could be no more than her lord and she his vassal, a loyal retainer. The kindling in her heart must never be allowed to take flame – and she fervently denied that it already had – their soft kiss in the dawn had to be forgotten, for her sake and for his.

Hermina believed that Dracarys may well be the first royal to have taken a herbalist as a retainer. She was duly grateful to him for rescuing her from a life of poverty and hardship, one in which her entire life had already been planned, but she could not help but feel that perhaps her gratitude to him was colouring her growing affections. She was happy that she would no longer be expected to wed Roland and bear his children, that she would be able to truly put her talents at healing to good use and develop them . . . and she was happy to be doing this with Dracarys.

It was like holding a sword that had no hilt, for no matter how she gripped it, she would always be cut.

Then her breath hitched in her throat as they reached the top of the hill and the capital came into view, massive walls and towering towers rising to strike the sky. She tightened her grip on Dracarys and she heard him chuckle and Shadowsong's whinny sounded oddly like laughter as her eyes grew wide as saucers. The flash of sunlight against metal, the flutter of emerald cloaks in the wind drew her attention to the guardsmen who walked the parapets. Three slender towers cut the sky, banded with twisting ivy and moss – instantly she recognised the _Temple of the Triple Goddess_ from Dracarys' stories, the home of her realms champion faith.

"Will I not get lost in there?" she breathed, suddenly terrified by the magnitude of her decision to follow him to the city.

"If you do, I'll find you," he reassured her, spurring Shadow into a steady canter as they neared their home.

"Amusing then, considering you were the one who was lost in the forest," she whispered, feeling light headed as she caught sight of the Royal Palace, rising in the distance, barely visible as they neared the towering walls. The faint glimpse she had gotten was all that it took to solidify her earlier thoughts that she did not belong here . . . that this was not her place.

Dracarys sighed as he reclined against her in the saddle, a strange look in his eyes as she perched upon the edge and surveyed him. Then he smiled, an endearing grin which melted her heart and made it that much harder for her to stay away from him. His voice was soft and thoughtful as he spoke, brimming with an emotion she had only heard him use once before, that day when their lips had brushed beside the river of her homeland.

"If I had never gotten lost, then how would I have ever found you?"

(*)(*)(*)

**A/N: Thoughts?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Finding You**

**Chapter Six**

Dracarys grinned as he took in the sprawling streets of his home, a feeling of elation welling inside him that not even the overflowing gutters and muck-strewn cobblestones could damper. The countryside surrounding Hermina's village had been rustic and picturesque, yet it lacked the fervour and bustle of the city. For one such as him, the natural beauty of the land would always reject him in favour of the artificial design of the civilization.

Behind him, Hermina looked on in both amazement and terror. He pitied her, if ever so slightly, as she had never seen the opulence and clamour of the capital before in her life. Dracarys could understand how overwhelming it must be for a girl whose whole life had been a village so small that it was not even marked on a map. At the same time though, he was hopeful that she would flourish in this new world as it was a place in which her talents could be grown and put to great use.

"I take it there are no marketplaces where you're from?" smirked Illythia as she came up beside them, an amused twinkle in her eyes. Had it not been for the lilting gentleness in her voice, Dracarys would have been sure that his sister was just taking the opportunity to make fun of the herbalist.

"No," replied Hermina, "But I take it that there are no waterfalls, mountains or forests in this city?" He swallowed the urge to laugh at her quick wit, realizing that despite her naivety, she could cope quite well. Any woman who could verbally spar with his sister, a lady who had spent years practising the art of diplomacy, was a woman who could rise quite high in the royal court.

"Perhaps there is hope for you after all," laughed Illythia before spurring her horse onwards. She reigned in beside Alexander, her eyes twinkling with mirth as she tried to draw him from his grim thoughts. Dracarys frowned at this, his elder brother had had a very sour look on his face since setting sight on Hermina and he dearly hoped it was not for the reason he thought it was. A great deal of strategy would be required on his part to convince his mother to allow him to take on Hermina as a retainer and he would have preferred to have both Illythia and Alexander's support on the matter. Sadly, as was always the case with his family, he was sorely disappointed.

The crowds thinned as they neared the royal palace, a majestic building that dominated the landscape, its towers reaching up to strike the sky. A veritable army of grotesque statues stood vigil upon the windswept crenels, dragons and gargoyles, basilisks and manticores, hollow eyes seeming to glare disdainfully upon the bustling city. The castle was ensconced within an imposingly high wall, which rose forebodingly from a deep moat, the still, dark waters of which reflected their images as they rode across the drawbridge.

A strange sense of homecoming filled his heart as the two knights guarding the gate saluted him, their steel gauntlets clanging against their helms. Dracarys nodded at them in greeting, his brow furrowing in confusion as their eyes widened at the sight of Hermina with her arms around his waist. No doubt the tale would soon be spread from the lowest of servants to the very lords in their estates that the youngest prince had returned home with a commoner on his hand.

He wished that they would cease their incessant staring, especially now that it was more than just the gate guards who had their saucer-like gazes trained on the young couple. The gardeners and stable-boys had frozen at the sight of Hermina, seemingly content to neglect their duties and fix him with prying gazes. Was it not hard enough for him already, knowing that despite his feelings for the girl riding with him, they could never hope for a future together? Did the servants and knights have to add their own judgement to his condemnation?

"Altair!" Illythia's yell drew him from his musings and he reigned in his horse, turning his head to catch a glimpse of his sister's sworn sword and travel companion. A minor pang went through him as he saw her face light up at the sight of the Italian's endearing smirk. He was not the only one cursed to have fallen in love with someone who could never truly be theirs and it hurt to see the sheer trust and adoration that was exchanged as the eyes of the princess met that of the ranger. Feeling Hermina slacken her grasp on him, the thought that he may one day look at her in that same way echoed through his mind.

It was not a thought he welcomed . . . but it was one that he desired.

Once he had dismounted, he turned to help Hermina down from the saddle. Over the course of their ride back from her village she had grown much more secure in the knowledge that Shadowsong would not drop her – something that had been enforced by the horse defending her during their fight with the bandits – but it was with a tentative smile that she accepted his hand and climbed down.

"See to it that the horses are fed and watered," barked Alexander, his harsh voice spurring the stable-hands to action as they hurried forward to lead the mounts to the stables. The elder Black turned towards his siblings, his tone still brimming with forcefulness as he spoke to them, "Mother is expecting us in her solar."

"Whatever she wants with us can wait, Alexander," snapped Illythia, "I speak for all three of us when I say that the past week has been quite ordeal and I for one would welcome a hot bath and a proper meal." Alexander gnashed his teeth at his sister and Dracarys took a step forward, wary of the inevitable argument that was sure to break out between them. They were, after all, Blacks and their tempers were as dark as their name.

Just as he had rested his fingertips upon the handle of his wand, Altair placed a restraining hand on Illythia's shoulder. She relaxed instantly, though it was noted that her hand never moved from the hilt of her sword. It would not be the first time she had deigned to settle their familial spats with steel but Xander was her equal – if not her superior – when it came to the arts of war.

"Much has happened whilst you were away, Princess," said Altair softly, "It is best that you heed your brother's words."

A shallow frown crossed Dracarys' features as his sister bit her lip and scoffed before turning and leaving their gathering, stalking off towards the castle doors with a scowl on her face. His brother's dour attitude now made much more sense to him. Judging by the tense look on Altair's face as he turned and went after Illythia and his cryptic words, something must have gone very wrong.

"Alexander," he called as he went after his brother's retreating back, nudging Hermina – who had remained prudently silent throughout the exchange – to follow him, "What has happened?"

"Much and more, little brother," was the reply, "Now come, Mother is expecting us . . . and bring the wench."

(*)(*)(*)

Hermina bit her lip anxiously as she was ushered towards the opulent solar, trying her hardest to disguise the sense of awe that threatened to smother her as she took in rich tapestries and ornate statuary that filled the halls of the castle. She had never in her life felt so out of place, the drab roughspun of her clothing standing in such stark contrast to the samite and silk that sashayed around her and even the servants seemed to carry themselves with more poise and grace than she could ever hope for.

The suits of armour mocked her, their empty gazes seeming to urge her to return to her _place, _to leave the hallowed halls that were theirs. A sense of foreboding welled in her as she passed by their viciously honed weapons; the razor sharp blades of halberds and swords seemed ready to cut her to pieces for daring intrude upon the royal home of the Blacks.

What had she been thinking? She had been a fool to accompany Dracarys. The very concept of her decision now struck her as madness, a feverish dream that she needed to wake from. It was too late now though; she had cast the die and chosen her path, leaving her future in the whimsical hands of fate.

Dracarys brushed his hand across hers reassuringly and she understood that he could not hold on to her, not here where the very walls had eyes and ears of their own. It was a sweet gesture though, one that she appreciated.

"We are going to see the Queen?" she asked quietly, in a voice so low that she was sure only he would be able to hear.

"Yes," his response was equally hushed, "I would advise that you remain silent, Hermina. There are ears here that are far sharper than my own." His gaze flicked towards Altair, a few steps ahead of them and Hermina nodded in agreement. Rangers were known for their heightened senses and in addition, she saw in Altair a wild power that she could scarce comprehend. His smile and gait seemed inhuman and the way he moved belayed a feral sort of grace.

The only creature she had ever encountered to share such characteristics had been the wild wolves that inhabited the forests.

Pushing the thoughts from her mind and steeling herself for what was to come, Hermina paused before following Dracarys into the solar, the sound of the intricately carved oaken door closing behind her signalling the nails being hammered into her coffin.

The Queen was seated beside her window, a woman so terribly beautiful that it hurt to look upon her. An elegant gown of sky-blue silk clung to her body, accentuated by fine silver metalwork. The bodice was slashed down to her bosom, the cleavage obscured by a confection of filigreed lace, the skirts cascading down to her ankles in loosely flowing waves. A diadem of white gold graced her brow, crowned with an inferno of glimmering emeralds. But it wasn't her clothing that leant a sense of nobility and majesty to the Queen. It was her eyes, deep sapphire pools that gave off the impression that she could see right through you, that she could discern your every secret with but a glance.

When finally she was able to look away from the Queen, she became aware that Altair was kneeling. Hermina awkwardly dropped to her knees, vaguely aware that the Queen's three children still stood. Obviously, they were above having to grovel before the woman who had birthed them, whilst she, who had never bowed to anyone in her life, was made to.

It rankled on her but she was forced to swallow her pride. This was a strange place, filled with strange customs and she had to follow them – this was not her village where she was respected and praised, this was the capital and in this city she was worth less than mud to its nobles.

"You may rise," said the Queen, and there was no mistaking the shards of ice in her voice as she stared at the pair of them, ranger and herbalist. Something about that look infuriated Hermina. She had no idea if Altair had ever done anything to earn her ire, yet she was sure that she herself had not done anything either. Dracarys' mother seemed to merely dislike her on principle, speaking to her as if she was a bug to be trampled beneath her dainty feet.

"Dracarys," she turned her full attention to her youngest son, "Do you know what an uproar your disappearance caused? I expect you to have a very well rehearsed story as to why you didn't return with the hunting party."

"I was injured whilst exploring the forest," he spoke calmly, though Hermina could tell by his clenched fist that she was not imagining the faint frustration she heard in his voice, "I would have died had Shadowsong not carried me to Hermina's village."

"Hermina?" queried the Queen, a sliver of distaste in her voice as she fixed her icy gaze upon the girl in question. Her nose furrowed as if she had just smelled something distinctly unpleasant and she turned to Illythia, glaring daggers at the princess. Hermina had to admire the other girl's audacity; she met the cold glare with one just as frigid.

"Explain why this . . . this wench has been brought back to our capital? Why she has been brought before me?"

"Did you not hear what Dracarys said," scowled Illythia, "She saved his life. Perhaps you should express some gratitude considering that he is your son."

"You have spent too long in the wilds, daughter," the Queen shook her head, "Your manners have become as uncouth as those of the dog you keep as your pet." A wave of fear broke around Hermina as she surveyed the dark look that graced the princess's face and for a moment, she was sure that Illythia would draw her sword and decapitate her own mother.

"I forget," said Illythia coolly, "that Luciana Black cares for nothing more than her perfect manners. You should be on your knees thanking the girl for saving the life of your son, not favouring her with your contempt." With those parting words, she turned on her heel and stormed from the chamber. Altair bowed quickly, his eyes deep with concern, before turning and going after her, leaving Hermina alone with three royals.

What was worse was that she was quite sure that two of them wanted her blood.

"What would you have off me?" Luciana's voice softened for a moment as she turned to face Hermina and Dracarys, before hardening again as her emotionally detached mask slid back into place, "Gold, silver, jewels? Name your reward?"

"She will have no need of a reward," said Dracarys evenly, "She has entered my service as a loyal retainer and bosom compatriot. Twice now has she saved my life and I have never before met a person so skilled with the healings arts."

For the briefest of moments, Luciana's composure slipped and an expression of deep sorrow and anger clouded her face. Then the moment was gone and her cold words were once more echoing through the chamber:

"On your own head then, so be it."

(*)(*)(*)

"Why do you choose to fight a battle that you can never win?" asked Altair softly, coming to stand beside her upon the balcony. His wavy brunet hair framed his olive-skinned face, tousled carelessly by the light evening breeze, giving him a look of boyishness that the moons had all but worn away.

"Because giving up is a weakness and I prefer having only one of those," she replied. Despite her beauty, Altair could not help but note that the silken robe just did not suit her as did her plate of mail. Illythia was a warrior who wielded a blade with far more precision than she did an embroidery needle.

"And what is that weakness, my princess?" he asked in amusement, a smile playing across his lips as he felt her slender fingers fasten around his wrist.

"You," she admitted, "You are my downfall, Altair." Balancing upon the tips of her toes, she pressed her lips to his in what was most certainly not their first kiss, her mouth opening to allow his tongue entry as he encased her in his arms.

Had she been lowborn, there would have been no hiding her lack of feminine innocence. But she had been sitting a saddle since before she could walk and had long since yielded her maidenhead to riding. It was said that common girls bled like freshly slaughtered fowls on their wedding nights whilst noblewomen scarce bled at all. Illythia used this knowledge to her advantage, knowing that she could bed Altair without any aspersions made upon her character.

The secrets and lies that they both had to tell had long since become second nature to them; forcing them to keep up a facade lest the world see through the ruse and discover them for what they were.

The nobles would be up in arms that their princess was romantically involved with a lowly ranger. Had her lover's true secret become public knowledge, were they to know that he was a beast under the light of the full moon . . . there may well be open rebellion from potential usurpers to the throne. The Noble House of Prewett in particular would leap at the opportunity to wrest the throne from her family – and a scandal such as hers would no doubt lend any rebel cause credence.

For who would support a princess who had fallen in love with a werewolf?

"You should never have gone without me," scolded Altair as they broke apart, both flushed from the intensity of their kiss, their lips puffy and bruised.

"If you had gone with me, then who would have been my eyes and ears whilst I was away?" she teased, giggling as she felt him scoop her up into his lithe arms and carry her towards her bed.

"In that case, I have heard much and more during your absence," he smirked as he began unlacing his breeches, "Should I give you my report now or upon the morrow?"

"If you value your chances of having children," whispered Illythia with a dangerous glint – albeit a teasing one – in her lust darkened eyes, "Then you will stop talking and start undressing."

"I live to serve, princess."

(*)(*)(*)

Hermina felt her jaw drop as Dracarys led her into her chambers, a set of rooms so large that she was sure her own home could fit in it twice over. Cloth of gold curtains hung against the window – a window that had glass, she noted excitedly – and the walls had been painted a rich crimson. Her eyes lingered over the furnishings, plush and soft as sin before widening at the sight of the smaller antechamber, a room furnished with a metal tub for bathing and a garderobe.

She had never allowed herself to believe, not even when she had ridden double upon Shadowsong's back and seen the castle looming in the distance, that she would ever be able to live in such luxury.

"My chambers are down the hall," said Dracarys nervously, unsure if she would like her new home, "These rooms haven't been used in years. I have never kept my own retainers before."

"It's perfect, Dracarys," she smiled at him, "Thank you for bringing me to this place."

"I should be the one thanking you," he replied, "Without you, I would never have returned home to begin with."

"Your mother begs to disagree," Hermina frowned slightly as she took a seat upon the edge of her new bed, fighting the urge to moan as she sank into the soft feather mattress.

"My mother has always been a little . . ." he trailed off uncertainly, glancing at the open door behind him suddenly. Hermina understood his gesture. Apparently, it was frowned upon for any to speak ill of the Queen, even her own royal children.

Her eyes felt inconceivably heavy in that moment, the fatigue and exhaustion of her journey coming up to slam into her. She blinked, stifling a yawn that Dracarys did not miss.

"You should get some sleep," he said, "we can talk in the morning."

"Goodnight then," she agreed, even though she had been hoping to remain awake for as long as possible so that she could fully revel in her excitement. Without thinking, she leaned forward to give him a hug, pulling her head away from his shoulder as if slapped when he froze in her embrace.

"Not here, Hermina," he choked in a strange voice, "I can't . . . the depth of our relationship can never reach the ears of another. The law is clear . . . you will pay with your life's blood if my mother finds out that we are more than lord and vassal."

"I understand," said Hermina, turning away from him as he walked away. Her door slid shut, the dull thud of wood against wood echoing through her massive bedroom.

In all her life, Hermina had never felt so alone.

(*)(*)(*)

"You should have told them," muttered Alexander as he stood across the table from his mother, his eyes flashing dangerously as he surveyed the crossbow he had deposited before her. He had realised it since their skirmish with the bandits; that these weapons were not off British design. Only one country in the known world used crossbows that could fire multiple quarrels at once . . . and that realm had never been on good terms with theirs.

"Let them have their sleep," murmured Luciana, "They will know soon enough."

"I see now where Illythia got her manipulative streak from," he scoffed, cursing his lack of finesse when it came to politics and strategy. Of the four Black siblings, he was the one most likely to barrel through an obstacle rather than work out a way to get around it. Still, he supposed he was better than William, who would simply demand that a servant remove the obstacle.

"My _manipulations _has kept this realm and this country safe for over three decades now, son," her words were careful and weighted, each well thought out and laced with power, "I have woven treaties and helped establish a dynasty that will last a thousand years. One day, Alexander, one day you and your ungrateful siblings will look back and thank the Goddess that I stood vigil whilst your father whored his way through half the pleasure-houses and taverns in this city."

"We would have preferred having a mother," snapped Alexander, "We would have rather had your love to your games."

"Alexander," Luciana's mouth was a hard line as she spoke, her lower lip trembling with barely concealed rage as his damning words resounded around the dimly lit solar. Her nostrils flared, her nails dug into the armrests of her chair as she glared at her middle son, her voice colder than the grave and sharper than a razorblade. It was enough to remind him that despite his mother being a Black by marriage and name, she had been born a Malfoy.

Her marriage to his father had been what had ended the centuries of strife that had existed between their countries, it had allowed the peoples of France and England to put aside their petty disputes and come together as one noble house. Trade had flourished, the English fleet had near doubled in size and an alliance between their nations was already being discussed.

She had slain a dragon in her youth and had thought both him and William how to fire a bow in their youths. She had spent her entire life defying the expectations that were enforced on her as Queen, carving out new paths and revolutionizing the stuffy political system that England had for so long endured under his forebears reign.

Yes, Alexander reasoned, his father may be the King but it had always been his mother who had been the true power behind the throne. Now, in these dark times, when the plague still gripped the eastern most expanses of their kingdom and with their bandits outfitted with weapons identical to that of their enemies . . . they would need Queen Luciana Black more than ever before.

"A mother will always love her children," his mother continued after having said his name, "She may not show it, indeed in my position I often cannot lest I show our foes that you hold value to me, but she will die for any one of them in a heartbeat."

For the first time in years, Alexander Black was truly speechless.

(*)(*)(*)

**A/N: Thoughts?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Finding You**

**Chapter Seven**

The soft rustle of silk was all that alerted Illythia to her mother's presence, and instantly her shields were in place. It was a game they played, each trying to batter each other down so that the other would bend to their will. At least, that was how she saw it. Her mother was as cold and unforgiving as the winter and as manipulative as they came, always playing the part of a puppet master with her family acting as her marionettes.

She presumed that her mother had once loved her father but that had been years before she had been born, before her father had taken to bedding the serving girls and tavern wenches just to spite Luciana. William had once told her that their parents' marriage had been one of love but she doubted it, Luciana and Narcissus both lacked the ability to love anyone other than themselves.

"You will catch your death in the cold, Illythia," said the Queen, coming to stand beside her daughter, staring out across the still sleeping city.

"The cold has never bothered me, mother," she replied, her sleep-tousled hair waving in the pre-dawn breeze, "I've been an envoy of the crown long enough to not care for my own comforts."

"You have always been strong," noted Luciana, "but like all Blacks, you overreach."

"Should I thank you for the compliment or curse you for your lack of faith?"asked Illythia, knowing that whatever the reply, she would do both. She knew that her mother had tried to shape her into a regal, vapid creature like herself but had failed. Illythia was content to live her life in service to the crown without ever letting its cursed weight grace her brow. She served her father as his most trusted envoy and in time she would serve her brother. The games of the court had always intrigued her, just not in the way her mother had once envisioned.

"You should do neither," Luciana's tone was grim, "Life is too fleeting to ponder the intricacies of a double edged sword."

Illythia frowned, she had never known her mother to be so subdued, so lacking in fire. Her thoughts went back to the night she had returned, two days ago when her brother and Altair had both hinted that events of great import had occurred. Lacking the patient tact she was known for, she blurted out her question in that confrontational voice that only her mother could inspire in her:

"What has happened whilst I was away? Where is father?"

It had been troubling her since she had returned, her father, whilst lacking as a good husband and mentor in so many ways, had always been there to welcome her home after a mission. Him not being here now had sounded the bells of warning in her head but even Altair knew not off where he was. It would seem that only her mother and two eldest brothers had any inkling of the supposed events.

"He is away," muttered Luciana, her voice cracking ever so slightly, "He rides hard for Scotland and the courts of our highland vassals." Her skin seemed to have paled as she spoke so that she looked more ghostly than ever before, her eyes heavy with worry as she tightened her grasp on the balustrade.

"What has happened, mother?" Illythia's snapped, tired of the half-truths and lies she had been met with since returning to the castle, "Why is my father personally acting as a messenger to our vassals? Why did he not wait for my return, or send another in my place? Why is Alexander so tense these days? Why does William not leave his chambers?"

Luciana sighed and gestured to the set of elegant chairs behind them, placed upon Illythia's balcony for receiving guests in the fresh air rather than her stifling solar. Illythia frowned as the weary breath passed her mother's lips but followed nonetheless, sinking into the closest chair, her eyes never wavering from the study of the lines now crossing her mother's porcelain face. For the first time in her life, Luciana Black truly looked her age, free of the glamours she usually maintained when in the view of those beneath them.

Illythia bit her lip, this small symbol from her mother that signified that Luciana did not feel the need to wear her shields when around her. It was a mark of trust, one that she was not sure they shared, but one that she had spent her younger years hoping to build.

"Our apothecaries have been studying the nature of the Ghost Plague for some time now and they have come to an unsettling conclusion," began Luciana, "The plague was not a natural occurrence and that it was magical in nature. Severo has deduced that it was created to weaken our country from within, as it targeted only those who possessed magical traits and left only spread to those without magic by chance."

"Are you saying we are under attack?" Illythia asked, the events of the past few days finally falling together like pieces of a puzzle, slipping into place to show her the truth of their situation.

"We are at war but we did not know who it was that dared attack us until the day you and your brothers returned."

"And who is it that we are fighting?" Illythia ignored the slivers of ice creeping down her spine, she did not need to be a princess of the realm to know that in their weakened state, a war could be catastrophic. The Ghost Plague had ravaged the realm, killing lords in their manors and farmers in their fields till finally Severo, High Apothecary of the Realm, had managed to create a cure.

"The Spanish," replied Luciana, looking into the horizon as the first fingers of dawn began to peak above the distant mountains, lighting the sky with a dozen hues of lilac and indigo, "We are at war with Spain and we may not have the strength left to win."

(*)(*)(*)

Hermina groaned as the potion fizzled and blackened, the fairy wings having been added to early to the draught. This was not her field of expertise; her talents lay in poultices and herblore, not in brewing healing tonics and elixirs. However, her new role as Dracarys' personal retainer and healer required that she know her way around a potions workshop as it was impractical to rely too heavily on nature for healing, especially when a potion could do the job much more effectively.

She was thankful for his help in securing her an apprenticeship with the royal apothecary himself and hoped that she could one day hold a title like his. It was hard work but she was sure that she could handle it, even if her mentor was as ill-mannered as they came. Severo was an apothecary, with more knowledge of potions and healing than she could ever hope to attain. She would settle for the rank of Potions Mistress and be glad for it, she had no love for the complex brews that stung her eyes with their noxious fumes and burned her hands with their acidity.

Why would she need to brew an antidote to a poison when all she needed was a bezoar to shove down her patient's throat? Why would she need to brew a sleeping draught when the leaves of the asphodel plant could grant a person untroubled rest when boiled in milk and then brewed into a tea?

Potion-making was as tedious as it was boring and it was only for Dracarys that she endeavoured to prove herself capable of its many intricacies.

"You must wait exactly seven minutes after adding the salamander blood before stirring in the fairy wings," snapped Severo, coming up beside her and screwing up his nose in distaste at the black tar-like substance in her cauldron.

"Why though?" she asked, growing irritated with his constant superiority. She was not opposed to learning but she would prefer her teacher be kinder. This was only her first day in his workshop – she had not even known the names of his tools till he had shown her what they were for.

"Because, if you fed that to a person afflicted by dragon-pox, you would just be killing them all the faster," he scowled, though there was a spark in the depths of his soulless black eyes. Hermina may be wrong in her assumptions but she could have sworn that he was mildly impressed with her for not apologising and mindlessly starting over.

"If a person has dragon-pox, you leach them to remove the bad blood and feed them on a paste of sage and hazelnuts, with ground crystal to draw out the toxins that remain within," she shot back, having cured the disease in that manner more times than she could count.

Severo smirked at her, shaking his head from side to side as he gestured for her to take a seat. Uncertainly, she sank into the uncomfortable wooden seat behind her and watched as he perched upon the edge of her desk.

"When I was a boy who was afflicted with dragon-pox that was how my healer treated me," he said slowly, as if weighing his words, "When I first journeyed to the capital, I used the arts he had thought me to heal many of the commoners but I also learned something."

"What did you learn?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. She had thought Severo to have been highborn but from the look of things, his birth was as low as her own.

"That it is not about how effective your healing methods are, it is about how quickly you can heal them," he smiled at her, a swarthy smile but she appreciated the sentiment all the same.

"Potion making is a refined and difficult art but when mastered, there is no disease that you cannot cure. When the plague first broke out across these lands, I drew on every bit of herblore and plant I knew to try and purge the sickness from the body and I failed to do so. Then I began to combine ingredients and I was able to create an elixir that could heal those afflicted by the plague. So do you see why, if you are to serve Dracarys as I have served his parents, you must understand the subtle art of potion making?"

The haunted memories of all those who had died in her care whilst she tried to fight off the plague enveloped her and she nodded, her lip trembling as she realised how useless she would be in a situation that required healing beyond her skills. She had been arrogant to think that her knowledge was sufficient because in her village it had been so. She was in the city now, within the very walls of the royal castle and the expectations cast on her were so much higher than they had ever been before.

"I understand," she said, getting to her feet and cleaning out her cauldron, determined to get the potion right this time. Her face screwed into an expression of utmost concentration as she weighed and measured the appropriate amounts of ingredients, stirring the potion at the correct intervals and turning the hourglasses every so often to properly control her timing.

So enraptured was she by the potion, she missed the platinum haired youth staring at her from the doorway, leaning against the frame as Severo caught his eye.

"You chose well," mouthed the royal apothecary, before turning on his heel and returning to his own workstation in a flourish of black robes.

Dracarys smirked with pride as he watched Hermina work, her brow growing wet with sweat as she brewed; the silver sparks flittering from her cauldron telling him all he needed to know.

Choosing her as his companion had been the best and worst decision of his life . . . the best because she truly was amazing, and the worst because he did not know how he would live with having her in his sight for the rest of life, to love her whilst never able to express his feelings.

He sighed before departing for the practice yard, all the while wondering why he had fallen in love with a girl who could never be his.

(*)(*)(*)

Alexander smirked as he drew his blade from its sheath, sunlight gleaming across the freshly cleaned metal. There had been many a time when he had been scorned by his peers for the lengthy periods of time he spent each day polishing and honing his sword but he had long subscribed to the belief that a blunt weapon would get you killer surer than a knife through the heart. One could not go to battle outfitted with a dull blade and this was proven whenever he took to the practice field, his sword honed so razor sharp that he could shave with it if he so desired.

He stepped onto the practice field, striding past the young squires who could scarce swing an axe without hitting themselves in the face, searching for a training partner who was at his skill level. One could never better themselves when sparring with those beneath them, that was but the surest way to allow oneself to grow lax and decadent. His old master-at-arms had long ago thought him that there would always be an opponent stronger than him on the battlefield and that the only way to guarantee victory was to train rigorously.

"These boys are so green they still piss grass," said Altair, coming up beside the prince and surveying the new recruits with a grim look in his eyes.

"They will learn," muttered Alexander, "we were all at their level at one point of our lives."

"Speak for yourself, Black," grinned Altair, "Even as a child I could have bested these young ones."

"Is that a challenge, wolf?" smirked Alexander, taking a step back and levelling his blade at the other man's throat.

"It would make a nice change from training these . . . squires," he said, hands slipping to the duel long knives he kept strapped across his waist.

"A demonstration would do them wonders," he said, swinging his blade in a wide arc, cutting the air yet missing as Altair ducked, drawing his knives and lashing out at the prince's exposed calves. Alexander leapt backwards, narrowly keeping his balance as the werewolf spun across the ground, kicking out and rising swiftly to slash his blade through the air.

The sharp clamour of metal on metal rang through the air as they duelled, Alexander relying on his strength and finesse whilst Altair fought using his superior speed and agility. The yard had fallen silent, the boys lowering their swords and their jaws as they watched the two men fight.

Alexander sword slashed through the air in a savage two-handed blow, his bastard blade only missing his opponent by a hair's breadth. The werewolf back-flipped, the sword coming a bare millimetre over his tunic as his leg came up to catch the prince in his jaw. He stumbled, side-stepping to avoid the knife hurled at his head and spun on his heel, a smirk appearing on his face as he stopped his sword against the side of Altair's throat.

"I win," he declared, wondering why the training yard was still so silent.

"Yet I did the most damage," Altair replied, his voice coloured with amusement. Alexander frowned as he followed the werewolf's gaze, a hot flush coming to his cheeks as he realised that the second knife was but an inch away from his groin.

"I would have decapitated you," scowled Alexander, pulling away and leaning onto his sword, not liking that he had been made into an object of humour by his sister's lover. Yes, he knew about how close the pair had become, he had gone so far as to question his sister's sanity. That had been the night he had woken to Illythia's knife pressed against his throat and her whispered voice against his ear.

_Tell a soul of what you know, and you will be dead before Mother can so much as tie his noose._

Since then he had made it a point to steer clear of such unsavoury disputes with his family, though he was chagrined that Dracarys seemed to be following in their wayward sister's footsteps. Though who was he to judge, especially given his _perversions?_

"Then I would be given a clean death," smirked Altair, his wavy brunette hair sticking to his brow and high cheekbones with sweat, beads of perspiration beading on his chin, "And you would be castrated . . . after which you would bleed to death slowly, in agonising pain."

"A draw?" conceded Alexander, realising that for this round, neither had managed to best the other.

"Of course," Altair extended his arm and shook hands with the prince before turning back towards his young charges, barking out orders for them to stop gaping and resume training. Alexander frowned before turning to return to the castle, knowing it was useless to remain without a worthy training partner.

Just then, his brother strode out from the castle, clad in training garb rather than his usually noble regalia. Slender fingers closed around the pommel of his curved long-sword, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he came up beside him.

"Need a training partner?" Dracarys raised an eyebrow as he took in his brother's sweat stained clothes and drawn sword.

"Let us see if your stint in the woods has improved your swordsmanship, little brother," Alexander returned the grin, a rare show of camaraderie appearing between them as he pushed the hair from his eyes and fastened his grip on his sword.

"I assume you've been practising your _sword fighting_ with that little squire of yours whilst I've been away," taunted Dracarys as he drew his sword and took up his stance. He barely had the time to raise it in defence before Alexander was upon him, face bright red with anger as his brother threw his indiscretions into his face.

Of course, reasoned Alexander as his brother was driven to his knees by the fury of his assault, Dracarys could have just been taunting him to provoke a reaction that would lead to a magnificent duel.

Dancing away from the gleam oh his brother's blade, he smirked at the realization. Dracarys was becoming more like the rest of them with every passing day. He was growing to love their games of wit and strength, the subtle battle of politics and knowledge that forged the bond of their family becoming a part of him.

It was to be expected. Dracarys was, above all else, a Black.

(*)(*)(*)

_**A/N: Thoughts? I am sorry for the long wait but I will be updating this story once a week rather than thrice, life has caught up to me and university is about to start so my writing time is not as great as it used to be.**_

_**Thanks for reading**_

_**Reviews are appreciated.**_


	8. Chapter 8

Finding You

Chapter Eight

The music lilted through her ears, the sweet melodies of the bards wafting between the tall pillars and throngs of feasters. A shy smile spread across her face as she tapped her foot in time with the subtle beat, delighting in the songs of knights and princesses and dragons, punctuated with the rambunctious clamour of the royal feast.

She was seated below the dais, in a place of high honour, something she had little expected when Dracarys had first informed her that she would be obligated to attend his seventeenth birthday feast as his loyal retainer. Above her sat the royal family and the noblest of their guests, speaking in low, troubled voices. Hermina wondered whose idea it had been to host such a feast what with the disturbing rumours that had been reaching her ears. If there truly was a war brewing, was it not more fitting for them to be conserving food rather than gorging themselves in it?

She may be little more than a girl who no doubt lacked much knowledge of the world she had found herself in, severely so in the ways of war, but she knew that their lives would grow mean if their food stores were depleted during a siege. A memory of her childhood fluttered to the front of her mind, her grandmother perched on the edge of her bed, telling her bedtime stories of wars in which men were forced to feast on the flesh on their dogs and horses or starve.

Well, if there was one thing that she was certain off, that was that she would under no circumstances, eat _dog._

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Altair from his seat beside her, tearing his attention away from his tender fillet of meat, cooked so briefly it still bled as his dagger cut through the succulent flesh. Hermina had at first been disgusted by the rawness of her dining companions meal, before catching sight of the moon beaming through the sweeping windows, near full. A werewolf had to sate its cravings, and it hadn't taken her long to deduce that Illythia's sworn shield was more beast than man.

"I confess, I'm more overwhelmed than anything else," she replied, filling her trencher of hollowed bread with a savoury rabbit stew. It was the only thing on the table that was relatively familiar to her and she was thankful that she was not seated upon the dais with the other royals, whom were currently tucking into a roast swan.

"I was as well, my first feast," he chuckled, "These are . . . and acquired taste, as is this wine." He gestured to the drink, coloured a red so dark it was almost purple in the light of the flaming hearths.

Hermina frowned, pouring some into her goblet and sipping, gagging slightly at the sweetness of it all. Wine, were she came from, was rare and tart, a delicacy much unlike this flowery vintage. Altair stifled a laugh at the look on her face, before sliding a flagon of ale towards her.

"This, Hermina, is the drink I was raised on and I assure you, it will be much more suited to your tastes," he grinned, a feral looking smile, and turned back to the Grand Apothecary on his other side, engaging Severo in a heated debate about a plant called _wolfsbane._

Taking the ranger's advice, she gulped down a goblet of the thick ale, so yeasty you could well chew it, and grinned at the warmth that spread down her throat. Tearing off a stew soaked piece of bread, she nearly cried as the flavours exploded over her tongue. A smile spread across her lips, the flavours of her home warming her to the celebration.

Above her, Dracarys' eldest brother, William, yanked a serving girl into his lap, dribbling wine down her corset and leaning in to kiss it clean. Hermina shook her nose in disgust at the spectacle, carefully noting the horrified look on Queen Luciana's face. Despite living in the Capital for little under a month, Hermina knew that Prince William Black had a voracious appetite for women. In the past though, she knew that he had always kept his indiscretions private – he had never showcased them to every noble in the kingdom.

It would seem that in his mind, the outcome of the coming war had already been decided, and he no longer cared for discretion and smokescreens.

Dracarys sat three seats away, deep in discussion with Illythia. The hustle and bustle of the feasters was far too loud for her to discern their words but she could read their grave expressions well enough. She too had heard the rumours; the king had been gone for far too long and apart from a lone owl a week ago, the royal family had heard no word from him.

The Queen though, was the only person upon the dais who exuded nonchalance and nobility, her posture and expression stern and unforgiving. She ate and drank sparingly, her sharp eyes scanning the room and the nobles, seeming to read them like open books. Every so often, Hermina would notice the queen flick her wrist at a person, an offhand gesture till she realised that the people that were being singled out were steadily disappearing from the room.

"_You should guard your thoughts more carefully, Hermina," _the voice resounded through her head, melodious yet biting. Turning, Hermina caught Illythia's frigid glare and nodded, perturbed by the power the princess seemed to hold.

"_My power is nothing compared to what my mother can do. She can know every little memory and idea you've ever thought within minutes. You've noticed our guests diminishing, I'm sure. Those who are disloyal will never see the light of day again."_

How was she doing that? Hermina frowned at her now empty plate, bringing a third glass of ale to her lips as she focused on keeping Illythia out of her mind.

"_Leave for your chambers, Hermina. Now," _Illythia's telepathic voice was sharper than she had ever heard it, and Hermina quickly noticed the dark look in Altair's eyes, as if he was fighting a mental battle. As subtly as she could, Hermina was on her feet, avoiding the Queen's gaze, an easy feat as it was trained upon the ranger. In a swirl of crimson skirts, she slipped from the Hall, her heart thudding painfully fast as she hastened for her chambers.

(*)(*)(*)

"Your mother was quite brutal tonight," commented Altair, grimacing at the glass of wine that his lover had procured for him, bearing the fruity drink for her sake alone. Illythia had always had a penchant for the sweet wines of the Capital and thus he found that he was often forced to drink when he visited her chambers.

"She means well," sighed Illythia, slipping out of her elaborate dress, the ivory silk falling pooling around her ankles as she began the laborious task of removing the pins from her hair. Altair frowned at her, knowing that a servant could enter the rooms at any time and catch them together. It wasn't a thought he relished . . . it would do more than cost him his life to be found with the princess in the undergarments, it would also tarnish her name for all of history as the royal who had taken a werewolf as her consort.

"With a war on our doorstep," she continued, smiling at him in her mirror as he came up behind her and began plucking the silver pins from her hair, "We can ill afford having traitors within our ranks."

"Yet you spared the girl," he noted. It had been a foolish move, in his eyes. Removing her from the queen's sight only served to heighten any suspicions held by Luciana, but then again, had Hermina remained and allowed herself to be read, she would no doubt be locked in a dungeon at this very moment.

Falling in love with the heir to the throne would have deemed her far more dangerous to Luciana Black than the entire Spanish army.

"She loves my brother just as much as he loves her," Illythia replied, running a damp bit of cloth across her face to remove the rouge powder that had tinged pink her porcelain cheeks. "To protect him, I must protect her."

"You're playing a dangerous game, my princess," he muttered, "Especially with your mother so volatile that she had nearly four dozen men and women executed at a feast."

"Altair, you should know by now that I only play games that I can win," she pointed out, getting to her feet and pouring herself a second goblet of wine. His own goblet remained half-full, and with an inward groan he politely sipped at it as she downed hers in a single gulp.

"You have never beaten your mother," he reminded her.

"Winning a battle does not mean losing the war," she smirked, flicking her wrist and causing the locks to click into place upon her door.

"Stay with me tonight, my love," she added, standing on the tips of her toes to press her lips against his. The oversweet taste of the wine lingered on her tongue as he took her in his arms, but mingled with her kiss, he found that he didn't mind as much as he usually did. His eyes slid closed as their kiss deepened, a tender nip at his lower lip telling him that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Clothes disappeared at a steady rate from that point on, till they both collapsed naked and spent against her goose-down pillows. Even then, she trailed kisses down his jaw as he caught his breath, a low groan escaping his lips as her thigh brushed against his groin.

"I've hurt you," he whispered as he took in the faint bruises upon her upper arms and chest, eyes widening as she shook her head in reassurance.

"The full moon is just two days away," she breathed, "It isn't your fault."

"How can you love me, beast that I am?" he said softly, cringing away from the bruises, steadily turning blue across her pale skin.

"I love the man," she replied simply, "I don't care that he howls at the moon when the full moon sheds its light. I love Altair the ranger, fur, claws and fangs and all."

"Illythia," he sighed against her hair, inhaling the scent of the strawberry oils she had worn to keep her hair sleek and free of her usual ringlets that night.

"Altair," she replied.

"My princess," he struggled to let the words escape his throat, gulping at this rare show of his own sensitivity. She was more than the woman he bedded . . . Illythia was his downfall as a ranger. Their credo as warriors of the wilderness was to survive at all costs to fight on but he knew that he would give his life for her in a heartbeat and die with not a single regret.

"My lone wolf," her breath ghosted across his collarbone, her fingers slipping beneath the sheets, arousing him with their delicate yet sensual touch as she explored his most intimate areas. For a long while, there was silence, broken only by hushed gasps from him as her sinful fingers gave proof as to why she was no fairytale princess.

"My love," he spoke finally, leaning down to pull her in for a searing kiss, because there were truly no other words to describe what she was to him.

(*)(*)(*)

A stumble marred his usually regal gait as he came up to her door, the drink having made him bold as he pushed it open and barged into her chambers. Cheeks flushed pink with mead, he cleared his throat and caused her whirl in surprise.

Ordinarily, she was beautiful yet plain. Tonight, she resembled a goddess come to dance upon mortals. The dress she wore was fine cotton; a blue that was as soft as silk and that flowed across her silhouette like waves. Illythia had had it commissioned for Hermina, especially so that his retainer could look the part of a true companion of the throne.

Though, if truth was to be told, Hermina could set his heart afire in her village rags, caked with mud, so long as she smiled her crooked smile.

"You left early," he observed, threading carefully as he approached her, loathe to show her how intoxicated he had become. The mead had been a potent brew, the spirits shoved into his hand by William even stronger and Dracarys feared he had become quite drunk.

"I grew weary of the feast," she replied, and had he not lived within the realms of deceit and political intrigue, he may well have believed her, "It was much too overwhelming."

"My mother had me dance with every maiden who attended, highborn of course," smiled Dracarys disarmingly, feigning agreement on her response even though he knew it too be false. She was entitled to her secrets as were all who lived and to an extent, he trusted her to pick her battles with care. If he could detect her dishonesty, young and tactless as he was, there was no telling how poorly she would fare if left to face the likes of his mother or sister.

"Yet, I didn't get to dance with the fairest of them all," he continued, pleased that his mention of dancing with other women had caused her expression to curdle like milk left out in the sun.

"You must have been so disappointed," she forced a smile to her lips, but once again, he could detect the insincerity of her gesture. It heartened him, those little signs that he was not the only one of the two who had been struck by Cupid's arrow.

"So disappointed that I decided to go searching for her, to claim my dance," he smirked, striding past her to cast open her balcony doors. The balcony was by far not the largest, barely wide enough for three people to stand abreast, yet it did allow the lilting music to filter into the room.

"I'm sorry that you didn't find her," Hermina bit her lip, and his smirk deepened. Like his sister, brother and mother, he knew how to play his games. Their skill may be prodigious but he was a Black and he always got what he wanted.

"I'm looking at her," he finally said, offering her a hand, his fingers trembling slightly with nervousness and intoxication.

"Dracarys . . . we can't," she whispered, her tone lacking conviction.

"Just dance with me, once, on my birthday," he murmured, his heart leaping as he felt her fingers intertwine with his.

"Just once."

He moved with an easy grace, leading and steadying her as she struggled to move with the elegance that had been ingrained into him since his birth, a timid smile crossing her face as she swayed to the soft songs of the bards. The bawdy songs of drunken escapades had long since passed, giving rise to the mournful melodies that his mother favoured above all else.

They sang off the tears of angels and the death of kings, the fall of the Goddess and the souls concealed within the stars. The songstress, an ethereal beauty hired by Luciana Black to sing the final songs of the feast, called upon the muses and the fates, weaving a tapestry of grief and joy across the sky.

His forehead brushed hers as she swirled around her chambers, his deep-green doublet a stark contrast against the pale shades of her dress. Every few minutes he would wince as she trod upon his toes but for the most part, the world was forgotten as he danced with the woman he loved.

"_I lost myself in darkness, in shadows, in starlight, but I know that I will, find you, for always . . ."_

Without thinking, and later he was certain to make sure that the drink was what needed to be blamed, he leaned in those last few inches, and pressed his lips to hers.

The songstress sang on, her nightingale voice spilling across the starry night as she, despite knowing that it was wrong, kissed him back because it felt right.

(*)(*)(*)

_**A/N: Thoughts?**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Finding You **

**Chapter Nine**

The Council Chamber was lit only by the flickering flames of a dozen torches, burning upon their brackets. A circle of ornately carved oaken chairs ringed the room, their high backs set against the wall and encircling an ancient stone table.

The table had been carved there by the first Blacks who had taken this hill as their home and raised their fortress upon it. The ancestral royals had sat here in this room, the first room built when their castle had been built, and planned their conquest of the realm. It was here that they had forged the many fiefdoms into a single realm and established a dynasty that would last for a thousand years.

It was only fitting that they council met here to deliberate the coming war.

Illythia frowned as she leaned into her chair, her ebony ringlets cascading across the crimson silk of her dress. Her flared sleeves skimmed the floor as she laid her hands upon the armrests, staring at the maps and scraps of parchment that littered the table as she took in her brother's words. The white gold diadem atop her brow had never felt heavier as she braced herself for the inevitable conflict that would bathe her realm in blood and death.

"Come what may, we cannot allow them to reach the Capital," concluded Alexander, his head free of adornment. He was a knight of the Order, sworn to hold no lands or titles and had given up his crown upon taking the vows of chastity, honour and duty.

Illythia nodded in agreement as a few murmurs crossed the room. The plague had done its job well and it would be suicide to meet the Spanish upon the open field in pitched battle with their armies so diminished. At the same time, the harvests had been lacking this year, the plague having forced farmers to not tend their fields, thus causing their food stores to be woefully inadequate for a state of siege.

How long before the common folk decide that they would rather be fed by an invading army than starve under their rightful monarchs? Illythia knew full well the answer – her family was feared and respected . . . but they were not loved by the lower castes.

"Has there been any word of the king?" asked Theresa, her deep hood masking her tattooed face from sight as she leaned forward in her seat. A trio of rings glimmered upon each of her hands, the gems sparkling with stored energy as they caught the light. Illythia looked at her mother eagerly once the question had been asked, like many others, she was most concerned for her father's whereabouts.

Her dislike for the priestesses of the Triple Goddess had not waned over the years, but in light of the coming bloodshed, she had swallowed her pride and allowed their High Priestess to resume a seat upon the council. There was no denying that the priestesses were amongst their greatest spellcasters and healers, and of their order, none were more formidable than Theresa.

"He sits in deliberations with the Scottish thanes," replied Luciana, digging her nails into her palms as she spoke, "Their loyalty is tentative at the best of times and we will need their armies if we are to hold."

"There are other options," muttered Dracarys, so softly that she feared nobody had heard. Cocking her head to the side, she looked at him and slipped into his consciousness, reading his thoughts as if they were her own. It was a testament to their bond that he allowed her such access, especially when he could have flung her from his mind with but a thought. Dracarys may not be a skilled spellcaster but like all Blacks, his mental abilities were vast.

Her eyes widened as she realised his intentions. What he proposed carried risks and would place them upon the edge of a knife, where one false step with send them plummeting down upon its razor sharp blade. Yet the reward, should his plan succeed, may well be enough to spare their realm much pain and grief.

"_Speak up, Dracarys_," she coaxed, planting her words into his mind so that only he could hear as she slipped back into her own body. She smiled encouragingly as he cleared his throat, and then held up her hand to interrupt William, whose tirade was beginning to bore her.

Her eldest brother fell silent as though slapped and glared at her. Illythia rolled her eyes as she glared back, hiding her grin of victory when he looked away. William was a sloth and a craven who could no more win a swordfight with a squire than he could lay a golden egg. Beside her, Dracarys nodded gratefully and began to speak.

"There is another faction that could turn the tide in our favour, an army that could even the odds or possibly tip the balance in our favour," he began, and William scoffed, falling lividly silent when met by the cold glares of Alexander and Illythia.

"They have no love for us," said Theresa as understanding crept in, a sour expression crossing her face, "Nor we for them. They are heathens who have spat upon both Crown and Temple since the realm was first founded."

"There are no fighters more ferocious in all the land," retorted Dracarys.

"He speaks the truth," muttered Alexander, "Their berserkers lack the training of a knight but there is a reason that their people have retained their independence for so long."

"The Gypsies do not love us," Luciana replied, "How can we know that they will help us now when we have tried to break them for over a thousand years?"

"Because this is their realm too, no matter their personal grudges, it is their home, just as much as it is ours," said Dracarys, shaking his head at the mutinous looks on several faces around the room. Illythia sighed, apart from the royal family – and surprisingly Theresa – the other council members seemed ready to reject the idea based on principle alone. They bickered vehemently amongst themselves, debating resources and the lack of envoys that could bring the Gypsies to their fold. Biting her lip, she rose from her chair, knowing what she had to do.

"I will go," she declared, her voice wavering yet clear as it rang through the Council Chamber, "I am an envoy of the crown, and I am of the highest birth, I will treat with the Gypsies."

The room rang with protests but for the first time in her life, she caught her mother looking at her with a strain of pride in her tired eyes.

(*)(*)(*)

"I have sent an owl to Versailles," Luciana sighed, her hair streaming behind her in the evening breeze as she stood upon the balcony, staring out over her tiring city. Behind her stood her sons, the two whom she could rely on, Alexander and Dracarys.

Illythia had already taken her leave, riding for the Gypsies' lands with only her ranger as an escort and William had been dispatched to the realms principal harbour to strengthen their defences there. She could not place much stock in him though – William had been disappointing her since his birth, content to spend his days whoring and growing decadent whilst his siblings brought honour to their house.

She prayed that his Black blood would rise to the challenge now that it was needed; he needed to behave as a prince and not a craven for them to be able to survive this conflict.

"Do you think your father and brothers will answer our call?" asked Dracarys, and Luciana did not need to be looking at him to detect the doubt filling his eyes and voice.

"Grandfather will not commit to a war unless France itself is threatened," scoffed Alexander, "He's too cowardly to risk the wrath of the Empire."

"Have a care as to how you speak of your grandfather," snapped Luciana, "He is a man who has grown old in service to his kingdom. All that he desires now is a peaceful death and a time of prosperity for his people – his duty is to the wellbeing of France and not the wellbeing of the Realm."

She wondered why she was defending the man who had sold her to Narcissus Black as if she were a common goat, using her as a bargaining chip for an alliance between their countries. It had been sheer luck that her endeavours had earned her the favour of her mother-in-law, slaying a dragon was a feat that no amount of skill could wholly account for, and that she had not perished in the process.

"You are his daughter," Dracarys spluttered, "He cannot abandon you in your time of need."

"I am his _daughter,_" she stressed the word, "I am not a son. A princess is born to be wed to a suitable suitor in the hopes that they will better their family's standing. Once we are given away in matrimony, we are the property of our husband and it is their duty to protect us, not our lord father's."

"That is an archaic belief and we all know it," snorted Alexander, "The might of the Spanish Empire is arrayed against us and even if Illythia can bring the Gypsies and their tribes to our cause, we are outnumbered."

"We cannot look to France for aid," said Dracarys softly, "but we can look to ourselves. We have resources that have never been utilised. We can rally the druids from their forests and we can send envoys the barbarians who inhabit the steppes." His voice grew stronger as he spoke, his mind whirring as he thought up new sources of strength for them to rely in.

Luciana held up a hand to silence him, tightening her grip upon the balustrade with her free hand as the sun began to dip low across the horizon. His ideas had merit but they were reckless and bold – there was no telling what the consequences would be. The groups he suggested recruiting were volatile and powerful, angering them could result in the creation of new enemies rather than the formation of an alliance.

"We already have forced the council to stand at an impasse by allowing your sister to negotiate with the Gypsy tribes, Dracarys. They will never accept such revolutionary tactics as you are suggesting."

"Then let the council be dissolved," snapped Alexander, "It is steel that will decide our fates in this war and not politics. If we don't do as Dracarys suggests, then we will die."

The Queen took a deep breath before turning to face her sons, a serious look upon her face as she spoke her commands:

"Alexander, I need you to send envoys to the barbarians upon the Steppes. Promise them gold, plenty of gold, if they would fight for us. Gather your knights and ride for the eastern shores – the Spanish Fleet will most likely anchor there and it is there that we must throw them back."

"Dracarys, send word to Theresa that we will need her aid in winning the druids to our cause."

Alexander nodded and took his leave but Dracarys frowned at his mother.

"And then where do I go? Am I to join Alexander upon the shoreline?"

"You will be remaining in the capital," she sighed, raising her hand to silence him once again when he made to protest.

"There must always be a Black in Grimmauld, Dracarys."

A slew of explicative escaped his lips as he stormed off and the Queen grasped at the balustrades to steady herself. She wasn't as young as she had once been and she had hoped to never see war in her lifetime. Yet now the dice had been rolled and the soil would be watered in the blood of her people.

Luciana did not love many, believing love to be a weakness that could be exploited. She was fond of her father and brothers, she tolerated her husband, but her children . . . on that count she had no choice in the matter. They were her four weaknesses, the chinks in her armour and it was for them that she feared.

No mother should be forced to bury a child and Luciana knew that she would rather tear down the House of Black herself than lose one of them to death.

(*)(*)(*)

Hermina bit her lip at the foul stench that rose from the mortar, the pestle slipping from her fingers as the heady odour of crushed dragon scales invaded her nostrils, causing her to grow dizzy and sway on her feet.

A pair of strong arms grasped at her below the shoulders, steadying her and drawing her down to a chair. Before she had the chance to mutter her thanks, a new aroma wafted across her face her head cleared instantly.

"You should cover your nose and mouth before crushing dragon scales," admonished Severo, handing her a goblet of water which she eagerly drained.

"I know," she sighed, "I assumed that I could crush them fast enough that the smell wouldn't affect me." She cursed herself for her stupidity, her desire to see Dracarys had made her careless in her duties and she could ill afford to be distracted when working with components, which if handled incorrectly, could destroy half the castle.

"You could have killed yourself," he scolded, his tone somewhat gentler than it usually was. Hermina couldn't help but smile at the old man – she could tell that he was growing fond of her despite his irascible, crotchety nature.

"But I didn't," she smiled. Severo clucked his tongue, eyebrows banding together as he surveyed her through curious eyes. Her smile never wavered, this was not her first dance with death and she knew that it would not be her last. The duties of a healer were perilous and by far more dangerous than any battlefield. Sickness was catching, and even the most skilled could be infected whilst tending to their patients.

"Our stores need replenishing," he said finally, handing her a smooth roll of parchment and a small pouch that clinked as she fastened it to her belt, "Make sure to get the herbs fresh and watch for pickpockets and cutpurses."

Hermina rolled her eyes at his concern. His warning was the same one he had given her every time she had ventured fought to the marketplace to gather the many ingredients needed for their potion making. By now she could recite his words at a moment's notice but she didn't mind. His worry was just another sign that he was growing fond of her.

Taking her leave of her aging mentor, she slipped through the castle, eager to be free of its suffocating walls. Despite the months she had spent here she was still made uncomfortable by its confines. She preferred the open sky and the rolling hills, the forests and the rivers that spoke in voices that man had long since ceased to understand. Thus, she relished her trips to the marketplace, and the rarer expeditions into the surrounding countryside in search of rare herbs for Severo's more complicated brews, as they gave her the opportunity to be in a place that was familiar to her.

"Off on an adventure?" she peered over her shoulder as she heard his voice, a bright grin breaking over her face as she caught sight of Dracarys, garbed in his training attire. It was that which she preferred seeing him in, the supple leather breeches and loose flowing tunic, sword strapped to his waist. When he dressed in clothes that he did not mind seeing shredded by his training partners blade, she found herself able to imagine him being of the same birth as her and this allowed her to picture a fantasy in which they could be together.

"The marketplace," she chirped, memories of their stolen kisses filling her mind as he fell into step beside her.

"I haven't been there in ages," he sighed, "Mother doesn't think we should linger amidst the rabble."

"And yet you find no trouble _lingering_ with me," retorted Hermina, slightly stung by his words. She knew that he didn't mean them as an offence, but they still hurt nonetheless. Every little reminder that they couldn't truly be together caused her pain.

"You're special," he shrugged, cheeks tinged pink in mild embarrassment.

"You could come with me to the market," she suggested, her eyes darting through the long corridor to ensure that they were alone. When she was certain that they hallways were empty, she leaned against him, her lips ghosting across his cheek as she whispered:

"And I may let you linger in my chambers tonight."

Her cheeks burned red as she pulled away and she cursed herself for behaving like such a harlot. She had only meant that they may be able to spend a little more time together tonight, perhaps kiss for a little longer upon her isolated balcony but her sultry tone – one she had no idea that she had possessed until she had used it – had already caused the sexual connotations to explode within her mind.

If she were to judge by the slack-jawed look on Dracarys' face, then he had caught the innuendo as well. For the longest period of time, they stood there, flustered, before she feigned a smile and suppressed her mortification enough to continue leading them towards the market.

They walked in silence, neither daring to say anything, though she counted it as a mark in her favour that he had not fled from her side already. It felt strange to be walking the cobbled streets of the city with the crown prince at her side and apart from his platinum blond hair and aristocratic features; he blended into the crowd as easily as she did.

Moving from stall to stall, Hermina made sure to select only the finest quality of ingredients for the potion stores. Resisting the urge to slap Dracarys on the back of his head or at the very least twist his ears whenever he chuckled at her arguing with a trader, she eventually had to pass two of her baskets to him because they were too heavy for her to carry alone. He pouted but accepted the burden and she wondered what their bustling citizens would think if they recognised their prince, shopping as though he were as common as they were.

The harsh crack of a whip drove her from her thoughts, her baskets laden with herbs and fungi as she followed the scathing sound. She saw Dracarys walking beside her, frowning as his eyes flitted this way and that, seeking out the source of the commotion. Catcalls and jeers were quickly overriding the bustling cries of the merchants and artisans.

"Goddess have mercy," she murmured as they rounded the corner, her eyes widening at the emaciated man trapped within the stocks. Deep welts ran along his bare back, his spine a ridge as he flinched and shrieked under the lash of the whip.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dracarys surprised her with the strength of his voice, and her mouth fell open as he pushed his way through the crowd, coming to face the man wielding the whip.

Hermina watched in awe, nibbling at her lower lip as she saw the guardsmen start as recognition overtook him. The merchant holding the whip, and the crowd at large, seemed oblivious that their prince had come amongst them.

"Do not meddle in matters that do not concern you, boy," scowled the merchant, his coin pouches jingling as he turned to face him. The guardsmen moved to intercede but froze when they caught their prince's cold glare.

"This man stole from me, an entire heel of bread," continued the merchant. His jowls bulged as a sharp voice cut across him before he could speak on.

"To feed his starving daughter!"

The shriek left silence in its wake.

"I would advise you to put down the whip," snapped Dracarys, and Hermina doubted that she had ever heard such venom in his voice. For all the differences between them, she realised that Dracarys when angry was the spitting image of his mother, a bitch so cold that no baby could suckle from her without dying of frostbite.

Her yell of warning passed her lips to late, the merchant lashing the whip through the air and catching Dracarys upon the cheek. He winced, taking a step back in shock as blood began to dribble down the thin slash. The whip came again, thrice more, slashing his chest and leaving bloody furrows around his chest. Then the fifth stroke came and his hand whipped out like a snake, catching it in midair and yanking with all his strength, causing the man to fall to the ground with a fearful yelp.

Hermina wondered why the guardsmen had not acted when Dracarys had first been attacked, before catching sight of the man standing beside the captain of the guards.

Alexander . . . who was due to leave the capital with the Order of Roses in tow by nightfall, stood with a restraining hand on the captain's shoulder. He watched the scene with a strange hunger in his eyes, seeming to devour the conflict and Hermina realised that he was waiting to see how his brother would reach.

"I have allowed you to pass on this man's punishment on me and now I will serve onto you the punishment for striking a member of the royal family," snarled Dracarys, the crowd erupting into fierce whisperings as his words escaped his blood-stained lips. He flicked his wrist, a signal to the guardsmen to step forward and lift the man to his feet between them.

"You whipped a man who stole to feed his child," Dracarys' voice was laden with contempt, "and then you attacked a man who defended him." His hand snaked forward to grasp the money pouches, tearing them from the man's belt and tossing them to the bleeding man who had just been freed from the stocks.

"This will not be tolerated in my realm," he continued, waving off the man's grateful ramblings, "Throw this man into the dungeons, and make sure he is given a taste of his own medicine. My mother will decide his fate."

"My lord?" an elderly woman stepped forward from the crowd, "If I may, what do you mean when you say that it will not be tolerated?"

"Hear my words, and know it to be the law," declared Dracarys by way of answer, "Any man or woman who sheds the blood of another, who causes them harm without obtaining the permission of the crown, will die by _my hand."_

"My lord," the woman, frail and leaning upon a walking stick, dropped to her knees, and Hermina gasped as she noticed the crisscrossed scars across the nape of her neck, the scars that only a whip could inflict.

"Dracarys Black," she yelled, her voice cutting through the air as the people knelt one by one around her, and she went down upon her knees as well, "the People's Prince."

"The People's Prince," they chanted, their voices ringing through the city, "Dracarys, the People's Prince."

Their chant soon spread across the city, till it grew loud enough to shake the very heavens.

(*)(*)(*)

_**A/N:Thoughts?**_


End file.
